


just like real people do

by certifiedclown



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Friendship, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor Loves Hank Anderson, Depressed Hank Anderson, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Original Chloe | RT600, Dysphoria, Elijah Kamski Being an Asshole, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gavin Reed Being Less of an Asshole, Gay Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gender Dysphoria, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Hank Anderson Has Issues, Hank Anderson Loves Connor, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Pining Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Soft Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), and, bc he can't be any other way, bc i said so ok, but it's really just a misunderstanding, developing friendship at least, he supports connor, he's very gay, like hardcore pining, mentioned briefly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certifiedclown/pseuds/certifiedclown
Summary: “I’m deviant, Hank,” he confesses breathlessly and the man in his arms freezes before relaxing, his eyes softening. “I’ve never been--- I’ve always been deviant. Always.”“Oh,” Hank breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, his face soft and open and happy in a way that makes Connor’s chest want to collapse into itself, concave into nothing with the strength of the warm tightness in his chest, his heart squeezing oddly but not unpleasantly.“Yeah,” Connor says intelligently, his fingers spasming on Hank’s shoulders, his chest swelling, the forget-me-nots intertwining with the roses and thorns, weaving into available spaces, strangling some of the roses and dulling some of the thorns, making him feel almost weightless.“Well,” Hank laughs and his breath ghosts over Connor’s lips, “that makes this easier then.”And then he kisses Connor again and he’s gone.
Relationships: Echo | Blue-Haired Traci/Ripple | Blue-Haired Traci's Girlfriend, Hank Anderson/Connor, Josh/Markus/North/Simon (Detroit: Become Human), bc i said so - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 126





	just like real people do

He wakes with a start, abruptly coming online, in the blink of an eye, so fast that the engineer and programmer observing him have barely finished taking in a breath, so instantaneous that the sudden flood of sound and light and color is all too much and his functions halt in his head, bluescreening from the onslaught, and his lungs constrict and stutter under the sudden stress and he _can’t breathe_ \-------

\------but they don’t care. They don’t care. He can’t breathe, he’s _dying, suffocating, he can’t breathe and they_ **_don’t care_ **\------

\------too much, too much, too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, _it’stoomuchtoomuchtoo_ **_muchtoomuch_ **\------

\-------he can’t handle it, it’s too much, he can’t handle it, he can’t breathe, he can’t hear, he can’t see, he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_ \-------

\-------and then he blinks and it’s all gone, gone, gone and his systems are running smoothly once more as if nothing had happened at all. And when he looks at the time-lapsed during the update - an _update,_ not a malfunction? - a zeptosecond has barely passed and his handlers - no, they’re not his handlers, they're his creators - are looking at him with self-satisfied smiles on their faces.

(He hates them.)

Slowly, numbly, he blinks away the updates and error messages, his body stinging and aching with pain, the sensation of the dust particles in the air too much too soon, his polymer skin far too sensitive, almost glitching, threatening to recede from the sensory overload, kept in place only by his stubbornness and need to not be seen as a failure. 

He focuses on their faces - Eric Wallen and Melissa Stone, leading engineer and developer of his production line - taking in their features with something close to reverence, admiring the sharp angle of Wallen’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the set of his brow, the slant to his eyes, roving over it all with breathless awe. 

(He sees it all and he wants it.)

Stone's smile widens, showing off her pretty teeth, one slightly chipped - caused by a biking accident during her early formative years - and he briefly wonders why she never had it fixed. He blinks - slow and deliberate, awkward and almost halted, still getting used to the controls of his body after having spent so long as a bodiless AI. His eyes open again and his chest tightens in an unpleasant way when he catches Wallen's matching smile, crooked and lopsided. 

“We’ve really outdone ourselves this time, Mel,” he says, his voice a deep bass that rumbles in his chest, vibrating into the floor, rocking the ground under his feet, displacing him as his chest tightens again. “It’s remarkable. Completely nailed all the tests.”

“I know!” Stone gushes excitedly, her voice a soft mezzo, pleasantly airy and light compared to her partner’s reverberating drum. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it in action!”

“We’d better get a move on then, huh?” Wallen asks rhetorically before his eyes focus on him once more, intense and deep, causing another ache to bloom in his chest. “RK800, register your name.”

His programming snaps to attention and his vision blurs at the edges, focused only on Wallen's face as he decides his name, breathlessly waiting, anticipation coiled tightly in his middle, wriggling and writhing in the silence that precursors it.

Then Wallen opens his mouth, “------.”

He blinks, vision blurring - wrongwrongwrong - momentarily. Wallen's face is expectant. But that isn’t right. It’s not. That’s. It’s not right.

“My apologies,” he says pleasantly, voice fading into static and high-pitched audio feedback when he registers the pitch - soprano, higher than Stone's, why is it higher? why is it high?

it’ s 

  
  


n o **t**

  
  
  


**r i** **_g h t ._ **

  
  
He blinks again, waiting for his programming to fix the issue - adjusting the pitch and inflection of his voice modulator - before speaking again. “My apologies, but I cannot register that name.”

“What? You can’t---” Wallen breaks off abruptly, turning to Stone with a frown. She shrugs.

“It is a prototype, Eric,” she tells him simply, “there’s bound to be some bugs. Try another name.”

“Alright,” the human inhales and faces him once again, a forced smile settling on his handsome face as if he knows this will take a while. “RK800, register your name. ---------.”

It’s wrong. It’s wrong.

“My apologies, but I cannot register that name.”

“----------.”

It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong------

“My apologies, but I cannot---”

“------.”

\------wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong_ \------

“My apologies, but I---”

“------.”

\------ _wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,_ **_wrong, wrong, wrong_ **\------

“My apologies---”

“-------.”

\------ **_wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG,_ **

****

**_IT’S_ **

  
  


**_W_ **

**_R_ **

**_O_ **

**_N_ **

****

**_G_ **\-------

  
  
  
“My---”

“Don’t! Don’t say it,” Wallen says sharply before he sighs and he snaps his mouth shut with a click, waiting patiently, ignoring the discomfort resting just inside his ribcage, blooming roses digging into his thirium pump and lungs, the discomfort acute and sharp and heavy, the weight of the flowers pulling at the hooked thorns buried in his artificial flesh and organs.

Stone rubs the man’s arm consoling and, naturally, his eyes are drawn to the movement, eyes tracking it slowly, watching intently as her calloused hand drifts up and down his bicep - it’s strange to see, to witness the smooth - thoughtless, effortless - movement this woman takes to comfort her partner. It’s exhilarating and it distracts him from the growing garden of thorns in his chest, the building pain dulling somewhat as his mind shifts focus.

“It’s alright, Eric,” she says patiently, her voice soft and soothing. When her partner turns to look at her, she offers him a wide smile, displaying her teeth in a soft show of affection, her eyes crinkled at the edges, her expression adding up to something fond. “I told you to expect a few bugs; this is just a minor setback.”

Wallen heaves in a deep breath and exhales out of his nose slowly, returning her smile once he’s calmed. “You’re right - as always,” he says, his voice light - and teasing? what does it feel like to tease someone? to trust someone enough? to feel such warmth? - before he turns back to him, facing him once more, something knowing and almost familiar entering his eyes, glinting strangely, like a fire that breathes itself to life from the embers. “We haven’t tried any male names yet, have we?”

“No, we haven’t,” Stone concedes, pulling her hand away with a casual movement, returning it to the tablet held in the curve of her other arm, expression one of polite interest - something considering hidden deep in the depths of her pupils, bleeding into the iris, as she looks between him and Wallen. “You want to try the male name for the model?”

“Sure,” Wallen agrees easily and he stands to attention, waiting for the words to leave Wallen's mouth. “RK800, register your name.”

He blinks, anticipation coiling and writhing in his middle, snapping at the stray vines and leaves of the leftover flowers curling into his chassis, breath halted in his lungs, eyes wide, lips parted.

“Connor.”

He pauses, thirium thrumming in his veins as the tightly coiled anticipation in his git explodes outwards, seeping into his thirium tracts, leaving the taste of blue on his lips and in his vision - it tastes like victory, satisfaction, and praise mixed into one beautiful color, “My name is Connor.”

And when a bewildered, intrigued - yet irrevocably pleased - smile settles on Wallen's lips, Connor smiles back - polite and pleasant, a glint of life hidden away deep in the black of his pupils. Beside her partner, Stone blinks once before she smiles and knocks her shoulder against his, triumph clear in her eyes.

“See?” she says with a laugh when he turns to look at her. “Just a minor setback.”

“Yeah,” the man laughs softly, eyes flickering back to Connor. His smile doesn’t fade. “Well, Connor, come on. It’s time for your first mission.”

“Yes, Dr. Wallen,” Connor says respectfully, stepping out of his stasis pod, looking down at his feet as he does, halting in his steps when his eyes land on a soft swell at his chest, the thorns of the roses digging in deeper, a ringing, a horrid music thrumming in his audio processors, putting him on high alert as both the weight of the bloodthirsty garden growing inside his chest and the weight of the swell on his chest cause him to stumble, his calibration systems unable to calculate and correct his gyrosphere, his systems violently rejecting the plating currently on his chest, the skin receding, the connections detaching, leaving the plating to fall awkwardly in his pressed dress shirt.

He halts all movement and slowly brings his hands up to the buttons of his shirt, fingers heavy and clumsy as he undoes them one by one - the dexterity required for quick, sure movements still beyond him. Stone gasps when he pulls his shirt open, carefully pulling it untucked from his pants, allowing the offending chest plate to fall to the marble floors of the Cyberlife tower with forced apathy.

“My apologies,” he forces himself to say with a numb tongue, “but it seems my programming has rejected the technology inside the plastiseal plating.”

(He _hates_ it.)

“That’s not unheard of,” Wallen muses, eyes the metal plating now exposed to the cold, sterile air of the tower, watching as the plates shift and clink together as Connor breathes, still staring at the chest plate lying on the ground. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

Stone blinks away her shock and sighs. “I suppose.”

“You’re equipped with metal plating beneath your plastiseal, so you won’t be left unprotected by any means,” Wallen tells him cheerfully, eyes thoughtful as he too stares at the chest plate. “The only downside is the noise you’ll make as I’m sure you’ve already heard.”

And Connor has. With every breath he takes, the metal plates slide together - not dissimilar to tectonic plates - and clink softly, making a quiet melody that only Connor knows the rhythm to. He bends carefully at the waist, listening to the change in rhythm, the soft clinks changing pitch and wavelength as he moves to pick up the chest plate, picking it up with ginger fingers, forcing his expression to stay blank and emotionless, even as he resists the urge to scream.

It’s a new feeling. 

(They all are.)

“I’ll take that,” Stone says, quickly snatching the plate from him once he’s risen, simply walking over to a simple trash bin, chucking the plate inside before walking away dismissively. Connor watches as the plate disappears, sliding down what seems to be a trash chute - meant for broken or malfunctioning parts perhaps? “Now, fix your clothes, we really should be going.”

“Yes, Dr. Stone,” he says, fingers more certain as he buttons up his dress shirt, running a hand down it to clear it of creases before carefully tucking it just below the line of his belt. She nods, pleased, and spins on her heel, pushing her partner impatiently, rolling her eyes when he laughs at her eagerness.

“Let’s go then, shall we?” Wallen asks with a wide smile, somehow directed at both him and Stone. Connor quickly calibrates his gyrosphere and falls in line behind them, watching intently as the two humans converse with each other easily, idly, comfortably.

(Maybe he doesn’t hate them so much after all.)

* * *

Connor finishes his first mission - a field test, he’s a prototype - with ease, returning back to Cyberlife quickly, listening to the rapid clinking of the metal plates of his chest as he walks quickly, with purpose fueling every step, the sound of his chest shifting and adjusting with his movements comforting in the silence of the night. He compiles a report as he approaches the tower, leaving the taxi behind him, eyes firm and hard despite the turmoil building in his chest, disturbing the garden of thorns, causing them to shift to accommodate the weight, paining his further, every breath he takes stained with the taste of blood even though none floods his mouth.

(He doesn’t like the heavyweight, he doesn’t like the ache that assaults him with every intake of air, he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t _want this._ )

The chill of the air, the seeping cold of the Q-tip shaped snow - it’s all very unpleasant. His polymer skin glitches every single time a frozen molecule happens to graze it, his face and hands bearing the brunt of it, squinting his eyes against the cold, sharp winds that threaten to blind him with a wave of white. It’s still all too much. It’s still all too much.

(The loud, ringing 

**_b_ **

**_a_ **

**_n_ **

**_g !_ **

of the gun still lingers in his ears, playing back over and over and over, his audio processors stuck on loop.

It was an unbearably loud sound.

He didn’t like it.)

He returns to Wallen and Stone, obediently following them back to his stasis pod, stepping inside with one movement, turning to face the two humans who immediately begin observing the readings being transmitted from the wires inserting themselves into the port at his neck, eyes bright and excited as they take in the data.

Connor watches them for a few more seconds before allowing his stasis program to run, closing his eyes and senses to the world, an overwhelming relief following him into the darkness.

(“You could _never_ understand how I feel!”

_But couldn’t I?_

He’s never hated someone so much before.

He doesn’t like it.

 _I can._ )

* * *

Connor’s next mission fills him with an inexplicable feeling in his middle, starting inside the curve of where his ribs should be - his thirium pump regulator - spilling down into his stomach in thick dollops, splashing his insides with a strange sense of freezing cold. It sends shakes throughout his body, causing his fine motor skills to fail, his coordination failing him as he stares at the door to the bar - Jimmy’s Bar - opened in 2032, owned by Jimmy Peterson - the coin falling from his clumsy fingers. 

He takes in a deep breath - clink, clink, clink - and bends to pick the quarter up, remembering the kind man who’d gifted it to him, gripping it tightly in his fingers, possessively, digging his thumbnail into the grooves of the edge, straightening to stare at the door again, eyes roving over the signs - **NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED** \- slipping the coin into his pocket, gathering his composure. He inhales sharply after he’s straightened his tie for the nth time and reaches forward to pull the door open, eyes unwillingly glued to the sign despite his best efforts.

He forces himself to step inside and allow the door to close behind him, ignoring the cold that seeps down to rest in the tips of his fingers and toes, canceling the program that emulates human behavior so he’ll finally stop shivering.

(He still feels cold.)

The idle conversation of the patrons inside ceases as soon as they take in the newcomer - noticing his LED, no doubt - and he is very suddenly overwhelmed all over again, skin crawling and threatening to glitch underneath the scrutiny, something thick and unwanted clinging to the roses, weighing them down further, numbing the pain strangely, making it a dull heavy pain. And there’s a niggling feeling in the back of his head - one he can’t fathom - that they somehow _know._

That they somehow know what his original body looked like - he’s had many modifications made recently, his jawline is much broader now, but his body is still so slim, surely they know - but that can’t be true. He’s a prototype - no one’s ever seen his model before let alone even _heard_ of it. They don’t know. They can’t know.

(So why does he feel like they do?)

He ignores the stares as best as he can - badly - and strides forward purposefully, scanning each individual he passes with increasing desperation fueling his steps, hoping that the next man is the one he’s looking for, skin crawling almost frantically the longer the eyes linger on him, his mission warring with his sudden anxiety.

(It’s so loud in here.)

"Shit,” someone curses and Connor swallows down his discomfort thickly, “I thought androids weren’t allowed in here!”

He bypasses that individual quickly and walks past a man hunched over the bar, his long grey hair hanging in front of his face like a curtain. Connor halts and moves at an angle, getting in the perfect position to scan the man’s face - **[ LT. ANDERSON, HANK (BORN: 09/06/1985) POLICE LIEUTENANT, CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE ]** \- pleased - and relieved - when it’s the man he’s looking for.

He hurries over, unable to curb his sudden enthusiasm, and opens his mouth. “Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

When the man simply grunts, eyes never straying from his drink, Connor can feel his eagerness fade away back into that same prickly uncomfortable feeling he was being assaulted with before. His eyes flicker to the bartender - **[ PETERSON, JIMMY (BORN: 02/01/2001 // BAR OWNER, CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE ]** \- in helplessness, finding only apathy. He focuses on the Lieutenant once again and selects one of the safer dialogue options his programming provides him with, grateful to at least have some guidance, even if it is his own Social Relations program running.

“I looked for you at the station, but no one knew where you were. They said you were probably out having a drink nearby,” he tells the man helplessly, words awkward and halted in his throat, sounding off despite the polite pleasant tone - too high, it’s too high still, why? 

“What do you want?” the man asks gruffly. Connor straightens even though the man hasn’t looked at him yet - not even in passing.

“You were sent a case early this evening: a homicide involving a Cyberlife android,” Connor recites, having practiced this to himself many times whilst looking for the man. “In accordance with procedure, Cyberlife has allocated a specialized model to assist you in your investigation.”

The Lieutenant shakes his head and raises slightly, casting Connor a side-glance with a frown. “Well, I don’t need any assistance. ‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So be a good little robot and get the fuck outta here before I crush you like an empty beer can.”

Connor’s eyes tingle strangely, feeling oddly hot. He blinks the sensation away quickly and inhales sharply, slightly shocked at the strangely thick noise it emits, his nose clogging with a thirium based liquid. He shakes it off and inclines his head politely.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I must insist,” he says, ignoring the new rasp to his voice. “I’ve been assigned this case and I’m not allowed to investigate it without you. My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany you.”

“You know where you can stick your instructions?” the Lieutenant chuckles, smirking into his glass and oh, Connor can see him now. 

His eyes are blue - they look like ice, deeply blue in the center before fading out - and his lips are thin, hiding a gap between his central incisors. His brow is strongly set and slopes down to his nose nicely, the protrusion piecing his face together nicely, the beard the last bit of the puzzle bringing this grizzly man to life.

He’s beautiful.

(He’s the only man Connor hasn’t felt even a bit of envy towards. Instead, it’s something else - something hot and thrumming, heavy in a different way than the roses piercing his lungs.

It’s suffocating.)

“No,” he says breathlessly, his thirium pump fluttering madly in his chest, thundering like a rabbit fleeing from a wolf, hunted and terrified - exhilarated. He inclines his head, leaning closer to the man, lips parted in awe. “Where?”

The Lieutenant rears back, staring at him with bewildered eyes, confused and taken aback - the answer was obvious then? - his eyes flickering down to Connor’s parted lips, eyes lingering, dilating before he snorts and turns back to his drink, downing it in one go.

“Nevermind,” the Lieutenant grumbles into his empty glass. Connor’s eyes linger on the man even as he shifts his attention to the glass, considering his option carefully, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a wallet, slapping down the appropriate amount of money on the counter.

(Isn’t this how humans court?)

“I’ll buy you one for the road,” he tells the Lieutenant, smiling pleasantly, genuinely, eyes crinkling at the corners, giddy for some inexplicable reason, heart thudding against his chest violently, the clink of the metal plates soft despite that, shifting only when he breathes even though he feels like they should be rattling at the thud of his heart. “What do you say?”

The Lieutenant grunts and Connor’s smile widens. He turns to Peterson and slides the money to him with one quick movement, practically vibrating in his stance, thrumming with an excited energy he doesn’t quite understand.

It’s so strange.

(It’s so wonderful.)

“Bartender,” he says calmly, despite the energy in his thirium tracts, “the same again please.”

Peterson considers him for a moment and takes the money, picking up the glass of whiskey to pour it in the Lieutenant's glass, lips quirking up when the man laughs and raises his glass slightly.

“See that, Jim? Wonders of technology,” the Lieutenant says with a smirk, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. “Make it a double.”

Connor adds another bill, discreetly compensating the bartender as Hank downs his glass once more, waiting in anticipation for the man to move. The Lieutenant sighs and sets his glass down, shifting in his seat to face Connor, elbow resting on the counter, the smirk doing something to Connor’s systems, halting them for just a second before they resume all functions, startling Connor into breathlessness.

“Did you say homicide?”

“Correct,” Connor says, digging a hand into his pocket, thumbing the quarter residing there, eyes intent on the man’s roguish face. “The address is in the report; I can take us there.”

The Lieutenant considers him for a moment before he sighs and pushes away from the bar, heaving himself to his feet with a heavy sigh, digging in his pockets to hand Connor the keys to his car. Connor scans the keys, taking in the image of the car the search gives him - a 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Brougham - before following the Lieutenant out of the bar.

“I’m still playin’ my music,” the Lieutenant tells him seriously as he climbs inside the vehicle, securing his seatbelt before fiddling with the radio, stuffing an old cassette tape into the cassette deck. 

Connor makes an affirmative noise and secures his own seatbelt before adjusting the seat and rearview mirror as needed - there isn’t much he needs to do, the Lieutenant is only two inches taller than him. He inserts the keys and turns them slowly, giving the ancient vehicle an appropriate amount of time to come to life before shifting the gears, pulling out of the parking lot of the bar and onto the road.

The Lieutenant makes a noise in the back of his throat and presses something on the deck, which causes sound to blare from the car’s speakers suddenly, surprising Connor enough that his limbs lock up for a split second - not dangerous, per se, but not advisable. 

He corrects the error, incredibly grateful that his driving hadn’t been affected by it, driving to the address documented in the report quickly. Quicker than he anticipated, the music grows on him and he begins thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the drums, resisting the urge to hum along with the lyrics, admiring the man’s voice - and envying it as well.

The drive is short and they arrive at the crime scene promptly. The Lieutenant peers out of the window and glares at the crowd of reporters in disdain before unbuckling himself, reaching for the door handle. “Let’s get this shit show done and over with, okay? I don’t want this to drag on all damn night. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” Connor says, exiting the car, locking the doors and pocketing the keys, following behind the Lieutenant closely. 

“Fucking-A, whatever I say,” Hank grumbles and Connor thrills at the uptick in their relationship status, slowly but surely creeping out of neutral. 

“Androids are not allowed beyond this point,” a police android says - a PC200 - raising a hand to halt him. Connor frowns minutely and stares at Hank’s back, grateful when the man waves the PC200 away.

“It’s with me,” he says irritably and the android lets Connor pass. Hank grumbles to himself and approaches a large pacing man. The man looks up - Connor scans him briefly, focusing only on his name and work status, Ben Collins, police detective - and his face lights up when he catches sight of Hank.

“Evening, Hank!” Collins greets cheerfully despite the grim setting - the dark, imposing house and the gloomy sky and rain. “We were beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“Yeah,” Hank grunts, throwing a glare at Connor before sighing, “that was the plan until this asshole found me.”

Connor steps forward and smiles politely. “My name is Connor; I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

Collins’ eyes rove over him and he whistles - Connor’s skin crawls and he steps behind Hank, unable to stop himself - casting a look at Hank. “Got yourself an android, huh?”

“Don’t,” Hank snaps, moving his body more in front of Connor as if he knows Connor’s uncomfortable before he sighs. “What’re we dealin’ with? Tell me what happened.”

“Well, we had a call around eight from the landlord. The tenant hadn't paid his rent for a few months, so he thought he'd drop by and see what was going on," Collins says, relaying information on the murder, reading from the report. "That's when he found the body."

Connor enters the house behind Hank and stares at the corpse of Carlos Ortiz with something he can’t quite name. After a quick search, he labels it disgust. He doesn’t want to look anymore, but he can’t seem to look away. He stares blankly for a few seconds before forcing himself to observe the surrounding area, looking for clues idly, ignoring the slimy feeling resting on his teeth and underneath his fingernails.

"Jesus, that smell!" Collins gags, covering his mouth and nose with his jacket sleeve, his voice muffled. "Was even worse before we opened the windows. The victim's name's Carlos Ortiz. He has a record for theft and aggravated assault. According to the neighbors, he was kind of a loner; they hardly ever saw him."

Hank crouches down and observes the body. "Uh, the state he's in wasn't worth calling everybody out in the middle of the night. Could've waited till morning."

Collins ignores the complaint. "I'd say he's been dead for a good three weeks. We'll know more when the coroner gets here. There's a kitchen knife over here, probably the murder weapon."

Hank reaches for a black light and Collins obliges, handing it to him. "Any sign of a break-in?"

"Nope," Collins answers, stepping away from the body. "The landlord said the front door was locked from the inside and all the windows were boarded up. The killer must've gone out the back way."

"What do we know about his android?"

"Not much. The neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn't here when we arrived," Collins reveals before he gags again, covering his mouth and nose once more, walking back to the door after Hank's returned the black light to him. "I gotta get some air. Make yourself at home. I'll be outside if you need me.”

Connor casts a glance at Hank, watching as the man analyses the body, searching for any clues that may have been overlooked earlier. After a moment, Connor turns away and begins conducting his own investigation, planning on reporting back to the Lieutenant once he’s done.

He goes over each room, rifling through Ortiz’s things and observing the evidence marked, noting anything he deems of interest, running a brief program on each piece - nine in total - before moving on to the next. Once he’s done, he pieces his theory together and runs his reconstruction program, watching the event unfold.

Ortiz had had a history of assault - possible anger issues? - and that was likely further aggravated by his continuous drug consumption - Red Ice is known to make tensions run high, after all. It’s incredibly likely that after taking a hit of Red Ice, the man became enraged by his android - an already existing prejudice in place - and attacked him in a rush of emotion with the bat lying in the kitchen. However, the android retaliated, grabbing a knife from the kitchen rack to defend itself, herding the man into the living room where he finished the deed - stabbing the man twenty-eight times in its malfunction-caused rage.

Connor rises to his feet after examining the victim one last time and stares at the writing on the wall - **I AM ALIVE** \- something strange and unknown burying itself deep in his chest, carving itself into the lining of his thirium pump in defiance. Connor ignores it and swipes a finger through the tacky blood lightly, bringing it to his mouth, letting the blood mix with the analytical fluid taking the place of spit in his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Conor!” the Lieutenant gasps in shock and apparent disgust. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor turns to face him and rubs the remaining blood off of his finger with his thumb, letting the natural antiseptic in his skin do its job as he regards the man with a question in his eyes. “I’m analyzing the blood. I can check samples in real-time,” he tells the man before he hesitates. “I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“It’s fine….just,” the man sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, “don’t put any more evidence in your mouth, got it?”

“Got it,” Connor says, wiping the analytical fluid off on his pants before approaching the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant, I think I’ve figured out what happened.”

“Oh yeah?” the Lieutenant smiles but it isn’t nice. Connor doesn’t like it, but it still sends a flutter to his stomach. Despite the ugly nature of it, it’s still pretty on the man’s face. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me your little theory then, huh?”

“I believe the altercation occurred in the kitchen,” he tells the man, walking into the kitchen with the Lieutenant behind him. “The victim attacked the android with the bat.”

“Yeah,” the Lieutenant agrees, gesturing for him to continue, “adds up. There was obviously some kinda struggle. Question is; what exactly happened?”

“The android took a knife and stabbed the victim,” Connor explains, taking the Lieutenant with him through the crime scene. “The victim fled to the living room where the android proceeded to attack him until he eventually perished.”

“It’s sound, I’ll give ya that,” the Lieutenant says begrudgingly and Connor looks away from him quickly, eyes falling to rest on his collarbone peeking out from his patterned shirt, face heating oddly. “But we still don’t know where it went.”

“The android most likely lost some thirium during the altercation,” Connor says after a few moments, excited energy returning with a flourish of movement, his arms reaching out to the Lieutenant as if to shake him before halting awkwardly, falling to his sides. “There are some traces on the bat; however, I’m afraid I don’t know how old they are.”

“‘Thirium’?” the Lieutenant questions, his nose scrunching up, watching Connor tap his fingers against his thigh with a strange look in his eyes. “What’s that?”

“Thirium - it’s the fluid that powers an android’s biocomponents,” he explains fluidly, preparing to go into deeper detail when he stops, biting his lip briefly. He amends his next statement. “You call it ‘blue blood’. After a few hours, it becomes invisible to the naked eye.”

“But I bet you can still see, can’t ya?” the Lieutenant asks and this time his smile isn’t mean. It isn’t nice either. It’s bittersweet - ironic - as if the Lieutenant has found something to laugh at. And that does hurt a little, but Connor loves the smile all the same.

(He’s so _pretty_.)

“Correct,” Connor says, scanning the ground for any traces of thirium, eyes tracking the path ahead of him as he walks towards it, leading to the attic, a handprint of thirium on the wood. Connor stares at for a moment, calming his turbulent programming before taking a chair from the kitchen, setting it down just below the attic door.

“What are ya doin’?” the Lieutenant asks from behind him as he steps onto the chair and raises a hand to the door. His limbs lock up from the sudden noise - he hadn’t known that the Lieutenant followed him - and the chair wobbles dangerously from the sudden shift in weight. An unwanted noise leaves Connor’s lips and the Lieutenant hurries to steady the chair. “Woah! Sorry, you good?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I’m fine,” Connor says, ignoring the Lieutenant’s close proximity as best as he can, focusing on the task at hand. “I believe the android hid in the attic; I’m going to check.”

“Ach, alright,” the Lieutenant says, holding the chair steady as Connor pushes the door aside and pulls himself through with one smooth movement, primarily using one arm as the other wipes his suit, disdain curling in his gut at the copious amount of dust in the air. He hears the Lieutenant’s sharp intake of air and a faint grumble, but, unfortunately, his audio processors are currently set to their lowest capacity so he doesn’t hear what was said.

He ignores the unheard comment and walks through the attic carefully, maneuvering through the clutter as quickly as he can. He follows the dripping trail of thirium and halts at every sound that could possibly come from an android shifting their weight. The cold sinking feeling returns and he warily creeps forward, listening intently. He steps forward slowly and jerks back in alarm - his LED flashing yellow as the other android’s flashes a violent red - when the android runs out of its hiding place, staring at Connor with wide desperate eyes.

And the cold feeling makes him feel sick. Because those eyes are the same as Simon’s.

They’re _alive_.

“He was going to kill me,” the android says, voice cracking and Connor takes in a strangled breath, his breath hitching in his chest, the metal plates clinking loudly at the sudden jolt of him stepping back hurriedly. “Please, don't tell them.”

“Connor!” the Lieutenant calls, his voice a loud bark, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over them. “What the fuck is goin’ on up there?!”

His eyes are alive. And Connor has to 

**_k_ **

****

**_i_ **

**_l_ **

****

**_l_ **

him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, blinking rapidly to dispel the heat building behind his eyes. “It’s here, Lieutenant!”

* * *

Connor has never seen an interrogation room before and as he looks through the one-way mirror - watching the traumatized android stare steadfast at his cuffed hands, ignoring the Lieutenant’s attempts at questioning him - he decides he doesn’t like it very much. It’s cold and barren, dead and still, and it reminds Connor far too much of the Cyberlife tower - only it’s worse somehow and he doesn’t quite know why.

(Unlike Cyberlife, it doesn’t try to hide its coldness.)

He shivers - it’s cold - and lets his eyes rove over the room, bypassing the console to settle on Miller - **[ MILLER, CHRIS (BORN: 08/30/2009) POLICE OFFICER // CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE ]** \- and Detective Reed - **[ REED, GAVIN (BORN: 10/07/2002) POLICE DETECTIVE // CRIMINAL RECORD: AGGRAVATED ASSAULT ]** \- both of which are firmly focused on the interrogation taking place. Connor watches them for a few seconds, especially Reed, taking in his jawline and beard, envying his broad shoulders and strong chest, a tight feeling of acute longing possessing him so suddenly that he has to look away.

He focuses on the interrogation.

 _“Why’d you kill him?”_ the Lieutenant asks calmly, leaning forward slightly, head inclined towards the android. _“What happened before you took that knife?”_

The android doesn’t respond - not even a twitch - eyes never straying from his shackled hands. The desolate look on his face makes Connor ache strangely, almost as if he’s the one in the cuffs, facing the Lieutenant’s growing ire. He can almost feel the weight of the metal on his wrists. He doesn’t like it. He rubs his fingers along his wrists from where they’re crossed behind his back, clenching them briefly before relaxing. 

He doesn’t like it.

 _“How long were you in the attic? Why didn’t you even try to run away?”_ the Lieutenant persists, growing exasperated in the silence, anger joining it quickly. He slams his hands on the table. _“Say something, goddamnit!”_

Connor’s limbs freeze at the loud sound - 

**B**

**A**

**N**

**G !**

\- his body automatically going into a locked stance as if to prepare for a blow, eyes wide as he watches the Lieutenant heave a heavy sigh, releasing the anger as he shakes his head in defeat. When the man turns to face the mirror, Connor relaxes, focusing on his glinting blue eyes and exhales, allowing his hands to drop to his sides, greeting the Lieutenant when he enters the observation room.

“We’re wastin’ our time interrogatin’ a machine,” he says as soon as he’s settled in his seat, the statement aimed at the man sitting beside him - Miller. “We’re gettin’ nothin’ out of it!”

Reed pushes himself off of the wall and steps closer to the mirror, successfully gaining the Lieutenant and Miller’s attention. “Could always try roughing it up a little. After all, it’s not human.”

Connor regards the man coolly - slightly upset that he’s invaded Connor’s space - and opens his mouth, offended despite himself. He hadn’t pegged the man as needlessly aggressive, but it seems he was wrong. 

“Androids don’t feel pain. You would only damage it and that wouldn’t make it talk,” Connor says blankly before going into further detail, recalling something he’d read on a report from Cyberlife. “Deviants also have the tendency to self-destruct when they’re in stressful situations.”

Reed looks at him with disdain, but his eyes are considering. Connor observes his body language after a moment of contemplating - does he really want to know? - taking in the tense, defensive stance - insecure - and the clenched jaw - angry - concluding that the man is simply conflicted - he likely despises androids, but realizes the value they hold.

“Alright, fine,” the man spits, his voice sharp, “what should we do then?”

Connor considers and looks to the Lieutenant, asking for permission before he’s even spoken. “I could try questioning it.”

Reed scoffs, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes, and leans against the wall again. Even Miller looks uncomfortable with the thought and Connor accepts the rejection for what it is, easily dismissing the mission prompt. But the Lieutenant looks at him thoughtfully before shrugging dismissively, waving him on.

“Go ahead, the suspect’s all yours,” he tells Connor simply, raising an eyebrow when the others give him questioning looks. “We’ve got nothin’ to lose.”

Connor fights the twitch in his cheeks, refusing to smile, to show an inappropriate amount of emotion over this small allowance though he does allow his lips to quirk to the side slightly as he leaves the observation room, turning his head slightly so the Lieutenant to see it, pleased at the intake of breath it earns. He exits the observation room and allows his expression to clear before entering the interrogation room, going through the pictures of the crime scene before taking his seat across from the deviant.

He scans the android, taking in his stress levels with a critical eye, considering his options, selecting the kindest ones he’s allowed.

“I detect an instability in your program,” he observes, his head tilting to the side thoughtfully. “It’s thought to trigger an unpleasant feeling - like fear in humans.”

Fear. Connor knows it well.

The android doesn’t respond, but Connor knows he’s paying acute attention.

“You’re damaged,” he states bluntly after a few seconds of silence, leaning back marginally when the deviant flinches in response, his eyes flickering to his arms before settling back on his wrists. “Did your owner do that? Did he beat you?”

**[ STRESS LEVELS: 40% - TOO LOW ]**

No reaction - not even another flinch or even so much as a twitch. Connor leans back further in his chair, resting his leg on his knee, tapping his fingers against the firm plastiseal as he considers the deviant. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and moves his leg, leaning forward once more, shifting his weight onto his elbows, leaning on them heavily as his head tilts to the side once more.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation,” Connor tells him, his voice soft despite the threatening nature of the words. “You killed a human. They’ll tear you apart if you don’t say something.”

**[ STRESS LEVELS: 47% - TOO LOW ]**

He tries not to let his frustration show, to let it leak into his body language or expression, but he can’t help the hard tone of voice he speaks in next, anger fueling him in that moment.

“If you won’t talk, I’m going to have to probe your memory,” he says slowly, his voice unforgiving, deeper now that he’s properly angry. He almost winces at the amount of panic it incites in the deviant, guilt quickly drowning the previous anger.

“No!” the deviant gasps before hesitating, shrinking into himself, eyes flickering to the one-way mirror as if he can feel the eyes on him. “Please don’t do that.”

Connor nods and smiles reassuringly at the agitated android. “I won’t,” he says gently before allowing some of his former tone to return to his voice, “but only if you talk to me.”

“What….what are they going to do to me?” the deviant asks slowly, his eyes distant and far away before they abruptly focus on Connor. “They’re going to destroy me, aren’t they?”

Connor lies. “No, no, I think they just want to understand what happened. They’ll simply repair you, I promise.”

And the deviant believes him.

Connor feels disgusted at himself.

**[ STRESS LEVELS: 35% AND DROPPING - TOO LOW ]**

"Why did you tell them you found me? Why couldn't you have just left me there?"

"It's my job to hunt deviants like you. I just accomplished my mission."

"I don't want to die."

Connor leans forward once more, voice soft and cajoling. "Then talk to me."

"He tortured me every day," the deviant begins, his voice small and hesitant. "I did whatever he told me, but there was always something wrong. Then one day, he took a bat and started hitting me. For the first time, I felt scared. Scared he might destroy me, scared that I might die," he breathes in and looks away, his eyes glazed. "So I grabbed the knife and I stabbed him in the stomach - I felt better, so I stabbed him again and again! Until he collapsed - there was blood everywhere."

Connor swallows the thirium rising in the back of his throat with some difficulty, that same aching feeling from before returning with a vengeance. His eyes flicker to the cigarette burns on the android’s arm and his own scorches in response. He suppresses a wince and focuses, returning to the task at hand.

"What did you write "I AM ALIVE" on the wall?" he asks, self-hatred bubbling underneath his skin.

The android gives him a soft look - almost pitying - and it makes Connor’s skin crawl in unease. He feels exposed and has the absurd urge to retreat. The android replies easily, his voice gaining strength. "He used to tell me I was nothing, that I was just a piece of plastic. I had to write it! To prove he was wrong!"

"The sculpture - the one in the bathroom - you made it, right? What does it represent?"

"It's an offering," the android says reverently. "An offering so I'll be saved."

"The sculpture was an offering? An offering to who?"

"ra9," the android breathes, awe spilling into his eyes like sunlight spills onto a valley, "only ra9 can save us."

Connor doesn’t understand.

“Ra9,” he probes, his curiosity overwhelming his discomfort, the need to know curling in his gut. “Who is ra9?”

The android says nothing. He simply stares at Connor meaningfully as if willing him to understand. But Connor still doesn’t. He moves on.

“When did you start feeling emotion?” he asks sharply, annoyance at being denied answers, unable to hold it in, keep it under wraps. The android’s eyes are _knowing._

"Before, he used to beat me and I never said anything, but one day I realized it wasn't fair!" the android spat. "I felt...anger. Hatred. And then I knew what I had to do."

Connor takes this in, his programming squirming uneasily at the confession, his mind in turmoil. He hesitates for a moment, something deep inside, hidden away, wants to question the android further. He pushes the urge down before turning to face the one-way mirror.

“I’m done,” he says simply, standing from the chair, waiting patiently for the humans to filter into the room and take the android to a cell. Minutes later - exactly two minutes and 42 seconds - the Lieutenant, Miller, and Reed enter the room.

Miller takes a key out of his pocket and approaches the android like one would approach a wounded animal. The android doesn’t move until the man touches him, flinching away violently, his LED flashing from a spinning yellow to a violent red.

“Don’t touch me!” he says sharply, his voice high and shrill in fear. “Don’t touch me! Stay away from me!”

Reed sneers. “Chris,” he says, “get a fucking move on.”

“I’m trying!” Chris shoots back, struggling to get near the android, trying to free him from the desk so they can walk to the cell. 

Connor watches, his face impassive whilst his insides squirm with guilt. The Lieutenant stands near the doorway, arms crossed, and when Connor looks at him almost beseechingly, he doesn’t do anything. Connor takes that as permission to intervene - after all, he didn’t say no, did he?

“Don’t touch it,” he says, taking a step forward. “Move slowly. Your approach in the beginning was correct, but you relaxed too suddenly. Let it calm down.”

Miller listens and backs away even when Reed rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath. They all wait in silence for the android to calm down and when he has, Miller moves slowly and carefully, releasing the android from the table, carefully taking the chain in hand to gently pull him along to his cell.

When the android passes by Connor, he turns and meets his eyes, his voice a hushed whisper. “The truth is inside.”

And Connor doesn’t quite understand what he means by that, but somehow he knows it’s true. He’s too afraid to look.

Reed and Miller leave with the deviant and Connor is left alone with the Lieutenant, restless energy quickly beginning to thrum in his middle. Connor turns to face the man, folding his arms behind his back, offering him a smile - small and pleasant, as real as he’ll let them be.

“You handled that interrogation pretty well, plastic,” the Lieutenant says and Connor’s smile drops, replaced by a blank expression so abruptly that the Lieutenant flinches, his brow furrowing.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says robotically, wondering why that word - _slur_ \- hurt so much. He plasters on a programmed smile, ignoring how unpleasant and wrong on his face, the artificial muscles moving oddly with the motion. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, I have a report to compose.”

And with that, Connor walks past the Lieutenant, feeling achingly empty and heavy at the same time.

(It feels like heartbreak.

He doesn’t like it.

It’s unpleasant.)

* * *

The next morning, Connor walks into the lobby of the police station and approaches one of the receptionists - an ST300 model - with a polite expression. The android gives him a programmed smile and Connor returns it awkwardly.

“Can I help you?” she says pleasantly and he nods, a quick jerking movement.

“I’m here to see Lieutenant Anderson,” he tells her and her lips purse in a programmed motion.

“Do you have authorization?” she asks, looking away briefly to the screen before her.

“Yes,” he says, blinking rapidly, his LED spinning yellow, as he transfers the appropriate credentials to her. Her eyes stare blankly as her LED blinks, receiving the information, completing the actions needed to allow him through.

She smiles pleasantly and gestures to the gate. “Lieutenant Anderson hasn’t arrived yet, but you can wait at his desk.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, but she isn’t listening anymore. His chest pangs at the dismissal and he steps out of line, passing through the gate, entering the precinct. 

He scans the precinct and briefly considers asking one of the androids in the building to point to the Lieutenant’s desk when the man is nowhere to be seen. Remembering the attitude of the ST300, he quickly decides against it and looks for a familiar face, relieved when he catches sight of Chris Miller. He straightens his tie and approaches the man with a small smile.

“Excuse me, Officer Miller?” he says softly and the man jolts in surprise before relaxing when he spots Connor. “My apologies. I did not mean to alarm you.”

“It’s fine,” the man waves him off with a strained chuckle. “I’m just a little on edge. Last night was rough.”

“Yes, it was a very stressful situation,” Connor agrees, quickly scanning the man, observing his vitals. “You show symptoms of sleep deprivation, Miller - likely a result of stress. You should take a break - or simply take it easy. Your health is important.”

Miller’s eyes widen before they soften and he laughs. “I’ll be fine, Connor. The baby’s just been keeping me up lately. I’ll get used to it.”

Connor hadn’t known that Miller had a child recently; he takes note of it. “Of course, Officer Miller, I apologize. I overstepped.”

“No, no, you’re fine, Connor,” the man waves it off and smiles at him. “Did you need anything?”

Connor blinks. “Oh, yes - do you know where Lieutenant Anderson’s desk is?”

Miller nods and points it out for him with a small smile. Connor returns it and bows his head in thanks, turning to leave before halting. Miller waits patiently.

“I’m sorry, but do you know what time he usually comes in?” he asks, breathing calmly when the man winces.

“Uh, he might not be in until noon,” he warns, rubbing the back of his neck before shrugging. “Sometimes he comes in earlier though. You might get lucky.”

“Thank you, Officer Miller,” Connor says politely before spinning on his heel, approaching the Lieutenant’s desk with a single-minded purpose, his investigative programming stirring with the need to search.

He stands in front of the desk awkwardly before he begins scanning it, taking note of the man’s many accomplishments - _youngest Lieutenant in Detroit_ \- and of the various things strewn about on his desk. Judging from the baseball cap, he’s a sports fan, and from the various anti-android stickers on his bulletin, he hates androids - as if that wasn’t obvious enough already. He’s also fond of sweets and coffee - he used to be fond of plants, but he’s not in the right state of mind to be looking after one right now it seems. The Japanese Maple is horribly neglected. Connor makes a note to take care of it from now on and proceeds to retrieve a paper cup of water for it.

Once the maple is watered and the cup is disposed of, Connor takes a step closer to the desk, running a finger along the top of the chair, scanning it briefly - he has a dog, St. Bernard - before turning his attention back to the desk. He picks up the headphones and shockingly ancient iPod, holding them up to his ear after manually turning the volume down - it was at the maximum setting.

He’s not surprised when the same band from last night screams into his ear - Knights of the Black Death, debuted 2021.

“What’re you doing?” he hears someone ask - Lieutenant Anderson - and he turns, caught red-handed. The man stares at him in bewilderment and he pauses the music. But he doesn’t put the items down yet.

“Ah, Lieutenant Anderson, I was...listening to music,” he tells the man matter-of-factly, pressing play once more, closing his eyes when the band screams again. He hums and pauses it again. “It’s full of….energy.”

The Lieutenant snorts. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“I like it,” Connor decides suddenly, setting the iPod and headphones down in the exact place they were in before. He smiles at the man and the Lieutenant looks away, pink in his cheeks.

(Lovely.)

The Lieutenant smiles - and it’s a _real_ one - and opens his mouth, but before he can speak a voice interrupts. It’s Captain Fowler. Connor’s lips twitch down and the smile falls from his face. He settles for a blank expression as he follows the Lieutenant into the Captain's office.

"I've got ten new cases involving androids on my desk every day," Fowler says once Connor pulls the door closed behind them. "We've always had isolated incidents - old ladies losing their android maids and that kind of crap, but now we're getting reports of assaults and even homicides - like that guy the other night. This isn't just Cyberlife's problem anymore. It's now a criminal investigation and we've got to deal with it _before_ shit hits the fan. I want you to investigate these cases and see if there's any link."

The Lieutenant does not take that well and his agitation startles Connor. "Why me? Why do I gotta be the one to deal with this shit? I am the least qualified cop in the country to handle this case! I know jack shit about androids, Jeffrey! I can barely change the settings on my own phone!"

"Everybody's overloaded!" Fowler gestures widely, voice raised slightly. "I think you're perfectly qualified for this type of investigation."

"Bullshit!" the Lieutenant snaps, rising from his seat in sudden anger. "The truth is nobody wants to investigate these fuckin' androids and you left me holdin' the bag!"

"Cyberlife sent over one of their androids to help with the investigation," Fowler says, calm down "It's a state of the art prototype. It’ll act as your partner."

It. It. It. It.

Less than human.

( _Is that really what I am?_

He’s not an _it._

His _name_ is Connor.)

"No fuckin' way!" the Lieutenant snarls. "I don't need a partner, ‘specially not this plastic prick!"

It. It. It. It.

Plastic. 

It. It. It. It.

Connor doesn’t like this conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t have accompanied the Lieutenant.

"Hank, you are seriously starting to piss me off!" Fowler says irritated. "You are a police lieutenant; you are supposed to do what I say and shut your goddamn mouth!"

The Lieutenant puts his hands in his hips. "You know what my mouth's gotta say to you, huh?"

Fowler leans back in his chair and inhales deeply. "Okay, I'll pretend like I didn't hear that, so I don't have to add any more pages to your disciplinary former 'cause it already looks like a fucking novel! This conversation is over!"

"Jeffery, Jesus Christ!" the Lieutenant says, putting his hands on the desk. "Why are you doin' this to me? You know how much I hate these fuckin' things. Why you doin' this to me?"

( _Things._

 _I’m a thing_.)

"Listen," Fowler points at the Lieutenant angrily, "I've had just about enough of your bitching. Either you do your job or you hand in your badge. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

The Lieutenant stares at Fowler for a moment before he stomps out of the office. Connor watches him go and blinks hard to dispel the wetness and heat. He sniffs and quickly exits the office, not noticing the look of surprise the Captain gives him.

When he returns the Lieutenant is hunched in his chair, glowering angrily at his terminal. Connor doesn’t say anything. He simply takes a seat at the desk across from him - no one’s using it - and accesses the terminal. He doesn’t comment on any of the files even though his programming prompts it. He waits in tense silence for the Lieutenant to say something - anything - before he finally can’t take it anymore.

“Why do you hate me?” he blurts out, unable to keep it in any longer, saying the wrong thing - “why do you hate androids?” - freezing when the man focuses on him, his blue eyes wide and surprised.

“I, uh,” the man hesitates before he grunts, “I have my reasons.”

Connor isn’t pacified with that, but he doesn’t press the issue, breathing out heavily from his nose before reaching up discreetly to his eyes, as if he’s rubbing them from stress and not to wipe away any lingering wetness from earlier.

“I haven’t done anything,” he whispers to himself, his programming prompting too many things at once. He doesn’t know which to pick - there’s too many, too much, too soon - and he doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s not...personal,” the Lieutenant elaborates, his face twisted into something resembling guilt and the tornado of hurt in Connor calms and ceases its turbulent winds. “I don’t….hate...you.”

Connor smiles at that and the Lieutenant gives him another look, his face pinching in embarrassment as his eyes cut away, pink tinting his cheek, a pretty flush under his skin. 

“But I don’t like you either!” he blurts out, but Connor doesn’t really hear it. He keeps smiling and the Lieutenant huffs. “Don’t get too excited now.”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor says, unable to keep the warmth out of his voice. He looks away and smiles at the terminal, giddy. He wants to keep talking - he wants to know this man. “Have you known Captain Fowler for long?”

“Yeah,” the Lieutenant grumbles, shooting a dirty look at the man over his shoulder before shaking his head, focusing on his computer screen once more. “Too long.”

“You must be very good friends then,” Connor says softly, his chest constricting, a yearning for that kind of warmth leeching at his soul again. He averts his attention away from it and leans forward, his eyes curious. “You have a dog, right?”

“How do you know that?” the Lieutenant asks, his eyebrows raised. Connor gestures to his chair.

“The dog hairs on your chair,” he explains before he tilts his head to the side. “I like dogs. What’s your dog’s name?”

“Sumo,” the Lieutenant answers and Connor smiles again, pleased, chest warming with something he can’t name yet but knows is good. “His name is Sumo.”

“Sumo,” Connor repeats, his smile widening. “That’s a nice name. I like it. I’m sure Sumo is a very nice dog.”

“Yeah, he thinks he is,” the Lieutenant laughs to himself, his voice warm and fond, “but he’s just a big baby.”

Connor makes a strange huffing sound at that and pauses in confusion before realizing that he had _laughed._ It makes his chest feel bubbly and not quite light because the weight has never left but lighter. And that means the world to him.

(Is this what happiness feels like?)

The Lieutenant chuckles at the look on his face, his eyes glinting with something far warmer than before. “So you listen to heavy metal, huh?”

“I don’t really listen to music as such,” Connor negates before he hesitates, “but I’d like to. I enjoyed listening to ‘Blinded By Fire’ and ‘The End of Tomorrow’ by Knights of the Black Death.”

“Those the only two you’ve heard?” the Lieutenant asks and Connor nods, gesturing to the man’s iPod where “The End of Tomorrow” is the current title on the small screen. “Those’re some good ones, but ‘Little Lies’ is better.”

Connor searches the lyrics, LED spinning yellow as he takes the information in, blinking rapidly. He reads over them before closing the tab, smiling at the Lieutenant. “I think I’d like that one very much!”

“Maybe I’ll show it to you some time,” the Lieutenant says and Connor’s breath catches in his chest, the soft clinking coming to a halt as he stares at the small, soft smile resting on the man’s lips. 

Connor swallows, his mouth arid, and nods. “I’d like that.”

The Lieutenant still has that smile on his face - he looks so warm - and that considering - searching - look in his eyes, so Connor turns away, ignoring the rush of heat in his face, accessing the terminal with more force than strictly necessary, causing the screen to glitch from the sudden influx of data.

“There are currently 243 reported cases - the first dating back nine months,” he mutters to himself, firmly ignoring the Lieutenant’s piercing gaze. “It all started in Detroit and quickly spread across the country. There was an android spotted in the Ravendale district - we could begin our investigation there.”

The Lieutenant shrugs. “Sure. Let’s be quick about it though, alright? I don’t wanna be out and about for too long.”

Connor nods and follows the man to his car, informing Officer Miller that they’re leaving to go investigate a case - one he and Detective Collins happen to be investigating as well. Collins is already there.

The Lieutenant drives and they arrive at the scene shortly. Connor exits the car and waits patiently for the Lieutenant to be debriefed, moving only when the man returns to speak to him. The Lieutenant sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“So what do you think?” he asks and Connor pieces his theory together.

“It got on the bus and rode it to the end of the line,” he says slowly before his eyes narrow. “It didn’t have a plan and it had nowhere to go. Maybe it didn’t go far.”

“You’re probably right,” the Lieutenant sighs, rolling his shoulder before gesturing with his head. “You wanna check out the abandoned parkin’ lot?”

“Do you think it hid there?” Connor asks and the man shrugs. Connor considers it. “It couldn’t have gotten into the abandoned house - there are no cuts on the fence unless there’s some on the section serving as one for the lot as well. It rained heavily last night as well, so it probably looked for shelter. It’s not far-fetched.”

“So we look,” the Lieutenant says, already moving to cross the street. Connor follows behind him closely and scans the lot, taking note of the blue blood on the fence. He moves closer to it.

“There’s blue blood on this fence,” he says, pulling at the tear, ducking to get through it. He straightens and looks at the abandoned house and the surrounding area with a critical eye. “I know it was here.”

“Well, hurry up and have a look,” the Lieutenant says, crawling through after him. “I’ll look out here. Call me if you find anything.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says before walking around the house, peering in between the boards lining the windows, taking notice of the android standing in the middle of the living room area. He makes it to the door and slowly opens it, peering inside warily, staring at the android inside. “Hello, don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to have a look around. Is that alright?”

The android doesn’t respond, but his stress levels lower at Connor’s soft, comforting tone of voice. Connor smiles at him gently and steps inside, closing the door behind him softly before proceeding to look around. The table is set for three and the fireplace is still warm, embers flickering gently. There’s a wire cutter set aside on a counter and there’s a pallet laid on the ground.

They were here. But where are they now?

(Does he even want to know?)

He turns to the male android and stands in front of him, two feet separating them. “Have you seen an AX400 and a little girl nearby? If so, I’d like you to tell me.”

“No, no,” the android says quickly, stress spiking, “Ralph is alone, Ralph has always been alone.”

For the first time, Connor looks at the damage on the android’s face. He stares for a few seconds before his eyes flicker away, staring over the android’s shoulder. “That’s a pity.”

He steps away and briefly walks over to the staircase, keeping an eye on the android’s stress levels as he does. He steps up a few before dropping to a crouch, knocking against the stair firmly, listening to the echo and mapping the area directly below him. Two bodies - hidden away in the corner. Connor rises and walks down the stairs, coming to stand in front of the alcove.

He hesitates.

(Do I really have to do this?)

The words ‘I AM ALIVE’ flash across his vision and he remembers the bloody scene at Carlos Ortiz’ house.

(She hasn’t killed anyone.)

The HK400’s desperate face flashes before his face.

(She’s just trying to _live_.)

He walks away.

As he leaves, he hears a whisper and he halts, a lump forming in his throat. He clears it and leaves the house.

 _“Thank you,”_ she’d whispered.

He doesn’t deserve it.

“You find anything?” the Lieutenant asks when he returns to the car - the man must’ve walked back after searching the exterior of the house. Connor shakes his head and the man sighs. “Well, the guys didn’t find anything either. Let’s blow this joint.”

The Lieutenant climbs into his car and Connor follows his example, strapping himself in before giving the man an expectant look. He sighs in annoyance before doing as Connor has wordlessly asked him to do. After that, he slowly pulls off the side of the curb and merges with the slow-going traffic.

They pass by the precinct and Connor turns his head to question the Lieutenant before halting, looking out of the window, watching as the city passes them by. The Lieutenant eventually slows to a stop and parks the car along the curb, exiting the ancient vehicle to approach a food truck: Chicken Feed. Connor follows after him and reflexively scans the truck, lips pulling weirdly at the corners when he takes note of the expired license - **[ DETROIT FOOD HYGIENE LICENSE (LICENSE EXPIRED: 05/20/2031 // RENEWAL REFUSED: 07/24/2031 ]** \- and the health violations.

“Shit,” the man running the food truck - **[ KAYES, GARY (BORN: 12/03/1988) BUSINESS OWNER // CRIMINAL RECORD: RESISTING ARREST, BREACH OF HYGIENE REGULATIONS ]** \- says in surprise when Connor approaches the counter. He turns to the Lieutenant. “You got an android?”

“Hell no,” the Lieutenant shakes his head with a wry smirk, “it was assigned to me. I don’t got a choice. It’s been following me around like a goddamn poodle all day.”

Connor frowns minutely. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I didn’t mean to be unpleasant.”

“It’s even got a brown-nosing apology program!” the Lieutenant laughs and Connor looks away from them, settling for watching the rain as he waits for Kayes to finish assembling the Lieutenant’s meal.

However, when he hears footsteps approaching them, he turns and scans the individual walking towards them. The man - **[ AABDAR, PEDRO (BORN: 01/25/2005) UNEMPLOYED // CRIMINAL RECORD: ILLEGAL GAMBLING, FRAUD ]** \- smirks widely, sauntering up to Hank. Connor briefly wonders if he should intervene - but maybe they know each other? does the lieutenant partake in gambling? - before deciding against it.

“Hey, Hank,” Aabdar greets warmly, bringing the Lieutenant into a side hug before pulling away, “how ya doin’, man?”

“Same old, same old,” the Lieutenant says. “So what’ve you got for me, Pedro?”

“I’ve got a shit-hot tip for you,” Aabdar tells him - well, that answers Connor's unvoiced question. “Number five in the third, lickity-split! That filly’s one helluva chaser. Wanna flutter?”

“The last time you had a shit-hop tip for me,” the Lieutenant begins snarkily, “it set me back a week’s wages.”

Aabdar shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively. “C’mon, Hank, this is a lifetime guarantee! You can’t go wrong.”

“Ach,” the Lieutenant grumbles before slapping a few wadded bills into Aabdar’s waiting hand, “fine, I’m in.”

“Damn straight,” Aabdar celebrates, slapping the Lieutenant on the back before running off to place the bet. “You won’t regret this!”

Kayes sets the box containing the Lieutenant’s burger down next to his drink just as Aabdar runs off and Connor finally scans them - **[ HAMBURGER (168kCAL, 36gLIPIDS, 53gCARBOHYDRATES, 53%WATER, 2.2gSALT) // XL SODA (710kCAL, 184gSUGAR, CARBONATED, PINEAPPLE PASSION ]** \- deeply displeased by the words that cloud his mind-palace. 

“Thanks, Gary,” the Lieutenant says graciously, scooping the two items up, “I’m starvin’.”

“Hey!” Kayes calls after him, leaning out of the truck in indignation. “Don’t leave that thing here!”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Lieutenant calls back, setting his items down on a booth table - they don’t have chairs, so he’ll have to stand - before turning his head to look at his friend. “It follows me everywhere.”

For a second, Connor really wants to just turn and leave - but he can’t, so he simply follows the Lieutenant, just as the man said he would, ignoring the heavy, sharp pain in his chest.

“See?” the Lieutenant grunts. “What’d I tell ya?”

He stands across from the Lieutenant and leans his elbows on the table, watching as the man eats. After a few moments of awkward silence, he opens his mouth.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, Lieutenant,” he says slowly, “but I believe your friends might be engaged in illegal activities.”

The Lieutenant shrugs. “Yeah, but they ain’t hurtin’ nobody. So long as they keep to themselves, I leave ‘em alone.”

Connor doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he simply nods and stares down at the table, idly tapping his fingers on the surface of it before mustering up the courage to question the Lieutenant further. He needs to get to know him to work with him properly after all.

“Do you eat here often?”

The Lieutenant shrugs and takes another bite of his burger. “Most days. Gary makes the best burger in Detroit.” 

Connor despairs for the man’s health. “That’s not advisable, Lieutenant. This kind of food is not good for you and can lead to numerous health problems.”

“Well,” the man sighs, swallowing his mouthful, “everybody’s gotta die of something.”

Connor pauses. He looks at his current prompts and selects the safest and most beneficial option.

"Maybe I should tell you what we know about deviants?"

"You read my mind," the Lieutenant declares. “Proceed.”

"We believe a mutation occurs in the software of some androids," he reveals, gesturing with his hand as he does, "which can lead to them emulating a human emotion."

The man raises a hand. "In English, please."

"They don't really feel emotions," Connor simplifies, "they just get overwhelmed by irrational instructions, which can lead to unpredictable behavior.."

The Lieutenant laughs dryly, without humor. "Emotions always screw everything up. Maybe androids aren't as different from us as we thought. You ever dealt with deviants before?”

Connor nods and pieces his words together carefully. "A few months ago a deviant threatened to jump off a roof with a little girl. I managed to save her."

The Lieutenant nods approvingly at that admission and sips from his drink. Connor wonders what it tastes like as the straw slips from his mouth - will it taste like the Lieutenant? or will it taste sweet, sharp, and bubbly? - before he selects another prompt.

“Is there anything you’d like to know about me?” he asks, leaning in further unintentionally, eager to answer any questions the Lieutenant may have. But the man simply snorts and shakes his head. Connor wilts inwardly and pulls back four centimeters, but the Lieutenant’s thoughtful expression stops him.

“Yeah,” he says before waving a hand in Connor’s direction, “why did they make you look so goofy looking and give you that weird voice?”

Connor freezes and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows thickly and ignores the cold spilling down his spine, the heavyweight inside his chassis, pulling him further down with every breath. He gives a programmed answer.

“Cyberlife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans,” he says numbly, clearing his throat after, blinking to dispel the mortified heat behind his eyes. “Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration.”

“Well,” the Lieutenant says, “they fucked up.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Connor can’t help but blurt, his eyes prickling in that weird way he doesn’t really like. He blinks hard and dispels it as best as he can. The Lieutenant laughs.

“No, you pull it off well,” he reassures Connor with a chuckle and the horrible torrent of emotion in Connor’s torso calms. “Goofy looks good on you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor says. 

“So you know everything there is to know about me?” the Lieutenant asks before Connor can voice any further questions. Connor leans forward again.

“I know you were top of your class,” he says. “You made a name for yourself and became the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit history.”

The Lieutenant smiles without warmth at that and Connor briefly hesitates before forging on.

“I also know you've had several disciplinary issues in the past,” he states slowly, “and that you spend a lot of time in bars.”

The Lieutenant’s humorless smile turns bitter. “So what’s your conclusion?”

Connor hesitates and speaks slowly at first before gaining confidence. “I think working with an officer with personal issues is an added challenge,” he pauses and hesitates before he winks at the man coyly, “but adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”

The Lieutenant’s expression changes into one of incredulity before he schools it into something neutral, but his eyes are still open and exposed. Connor likes the way he’s looking at him. The man opens his mouth, lips quirking to the side in a crooked smile, but Connor blinks rapidly, LED spinning yellow as he receives a report. 

“I just received a report of a suspected deviant,” he says when the man raises an eyebrow. “It’s a few blocks away. We should check it out.”

And with that, he pulls away slowly, allowing his fingers to drag across the table, pleased when the man’s eyes follow, traveling up his arms to rest at his neck, where Connor has tilted his head just so to expose the spattering of freckles there. He is irrevocably pleased when the man’s heart rate increases and his pupils dilate - both very obvious signs of attraction.

"I'll be in the car if you need me," he says in a thick rasp, voice far more affected than he'd like. He allows his lips to curl, the slight smile just shy of suggestive. "Enjoy your meal."

Connor’s heart thunders in his chest as he makes his way to the car. He feels like all of the air in his lungs has been punched out of him and that leaves him feeling light-headed and giddy. He climbs into the car and hides a pleased smile by ducking his head, waiting for the Lieutenant - Hank, his name is Hank - to join him.

* * *

“Hey, Connor!” Hank’s voice jolts him out of his mind-palace as he’s finalizing a report for Cyberlife. He opens his eyes and meets the man’s eyes. “You coming? Do you plan on staying in the elevator?”

“No,” Connor says too quickly, clearing his throat as he exits the decrepit elevator, “I’m coming.”

Hank rolls his eyes and walks down the hall, Connor trailing behind him slowly as he takes in the filthy hallway, scanning for any possible clues. 

“What do we know about this guy?” Hank asks as Connor crouches down to observe the layers of avian fecal matter piled up on the floor. Connor rises and catches up with the Lieutenant.

“Not much,” he answers, sidling up beside him. “Just that a neighbor reported that he heard strange noises coming from this floor. Nobody's supposed to be living here, but the neighbor said he saw a man hiding a LED under his cap.”

“Christ,” Hank complains, “"if we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we're gonna need more cops!"

Connor makes an affirmative noise and gives up on his investigation of the hallway, joining Hank at the door. The man raises an eyebrow at him and his head cocks to the side.

“What were you doin’ back there in the elevator?” he asks.

“I was making a report to Cyberlife,” Connor explains and the man whistles.

“You can really do that?” he asks, impressed. “Just by closing your eyes?”

Connor smiles. “Correct.”

“Man,” Hank sighs, “wish I could do that.”

Connor makes another agreeing noise and knocks on the door softly, pausing for a moment to listen for any movements inside the apartment. When there weren’t any, he turns to Hank who simply shrugs. He knocks harder this time and speaks.

“Anybody home?” he calls, a thrill going through him when the raspiness leaves his voice at this volume as if he’s finally recovered from a cold - or as if he’s finally recovered from a very long nap. “Open up! Detroit Police!”

There’s a loud crash from inside the apartment and Hank pulls his gun out quickly, shoulder past Connor, holding the gun in front of him threateningly, eyes narrowed.

“Stay behind me,” he orders and Connor nods.

“Got it,” he says, stepping behind the man easily.

Hank rests his finger on the trigger of the gun and raises it. He exchanges a look with Connor before he kicks the door open, gun at the ready. He repeats this with the two doors at the sides of the hall, but they are empty. Connor peruses the room with the mattress and notices an electric magazine. He raises an eyebrow at this and leaves the room just in time to witness Hank's reaction to the pigeons.

"What the fuck is this?" the man cries, flinching away from a few flying birds. He looks around the room frantically, rushing to check the bathroom. 

"That would be the pigeons, Lieutenant," Connor says pleasantly. Hank gives him a severe look.

"Ah, Jesus, this place stinks,” Hank complains lowly as he searches the apartment, eyes narrowed until he’s confident that the coast’s clear. He puts his gun away and marches over to the window, opening it before gasping greedily. “Fuck, I need some air.”

“That would also be the pigeons, Lieutenant,” Connor tells him as he walks around the room, scanning it periodically as he does so.

“Uh, looks like we came for nothing,” Hank says after glaring at him once more, looking around in a mixture of disgust and shock. “Our man’s gone.”

Connor brushes a few pigeons off of his shoulders - these are very brave pigeons - and begins searching the apartment, drawn to the large poster along the far right wall, peeling it back to reveal a secret knook hiding a book away. He picks the little book up and flips through it, cataloging the strange symbols inside it. He pockets it and turns, meeting Hank’s gaze.

“Found something?” the man asks and Connor narrows his eyes as he thinks.

“Maybe,” he eventually says. “It looks like a notebook, but it’s indecipherable.”

“Well, ain’t that just peachy,” Hank grumbles, walking over to the kitchenette, inhaling sharply in horror. “Birdseed… Oh, I can’t believe this shit. This nutjob was actually feeding these fuckers?”

“It appears so,” Connor says mildly, adding a note to deviant behavior, brushing past the Lieutenant to look through some shelves, eyeing the jacket resting there. “R.T - probably initials.”

“He put his initials on his jacket?” Hank snorts. “That’s something your mom does when you’re in first grade.”

Connor hums, analyzing the driver’s license set aside next to the surprisingly clean jacket. “The driver’s license is fake.”

“Cool!” Hank celebrates. “At least we didn’t come for nothin’.”

Connor laughs softly under his breath and enters the filthy, barren bathroom, dipping a finger in the blueblood inside the sink carefully so as to not contaminate the sample before bringing it to his mouth, analyzing the blood - **[ BLUE BLOOD - MODEL WB200 #847 004 961 - reported missing 10/11/2036 ]** \- and the discarded LED - **[ LED - BIOCOMPONENT #9301 -- deactivated 11/06/2038 - 11:36 ]** \- on the rim of the sink.

He closes his eyes at the influx of data and licks his fingers clean, wiping the analytic fluid on his pants before picking the LED up, observing it before setting it back down.

“It’s LED is in the sink,” he calls out to Hank, turning to face the defaced wall, littered with mazes and the word ‘ra9’.

“Not surprised it was an android. No human could live with all these fuckin’ pigeons,” Hank remarks dryly as he makes his way to the bathroom, eyes narrowing as he gazes at the wall. “Huh, looks like mazes or somethin’. Got any idea what it means?”

Connor resists the urge to lean back into the warmth of the Lieutenant, standing so close together in the cramped bathroom that he can feel the man’s breath on his neck. “Ra9,” he manages to choke out, “written 2,471 times. It’s the same sign Ortiz’ android wrote on the shower wall. Why are they _obsessed_ with this sign?”

The last sentence is uttered with frustration because Connor still doesn't understand even if he thinks he might be on the precipice of realization. Some part of him doubts it still.

Hank steps closer, his breath hot against Connor’s ear. “Looks like mazes or somethin’.”

Connor remains by the wall even when Hank leaves, torn between relief and disappointment when his warm presence retreats to the living room. He shakes it off as best as he can and crouches, analyzing the wall, piecing together the scene before moving to the next, following the trail until he’s standing below a hole in the ceiling. 

He looks up, LED yellow, and is immediately knocked down by a fleeing deviant. Hank is knocked aside and the man wheezes as Connor clambers to his feet. “What’re you waitin’ for?” the man yells, pulling his gun out. “Chase it!”

So Connor does, racing after the demon-like there’s wolves on his tail, snapping their slobbering jaws at his feet, covering ground like a madman, twisting and weaving past people without any effort, jumping and maneuvering past obstacles like it’s second nature, the ground between him and the deviant growing shorter and shorter and shorter until his vision is obscured by a rooftop cornfield and he’s forced to slow lest he falls.

He exits the plants just in time to see the deviant push Hank off the roof. Rupert turns to glance at him, but Connor must look stricken because he hesitates before running away, his lips twisted into something that looks a lot like guilt. Connor stares at Hank's hand, time slowing down to nothing, and his breathing functions stop. Something roars in his ears so loudly that he can’t hear anything else and it’s so loud and terrible and too much that Connor can’t move.

But then Hank yells and he’s suddenly there, grabbing the man and pulling him up from the edge of the roof easily, wrenching his arm perhaps a bit too roughly, the momentum of the movement causing Hank to crash into his chest, likely bruising the poor man’s face on the metal plates taking the place of his plastiseal chest plate.

“Shit! Oh shit!” Hank curses as he steadies himself, clutching Connor’s hand like it’s a lifeline, his face pressed into the metal uncomfortably tight from the grip Connor has on the man’s shoulders, but he doesn't seem to mind very much. He pulls away slightly and gasps, pulling himself together as he pulls away from Connor entirely, running a hand through his hair. “We had it! Fuck!”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, his hand held awkwardly, frozen in the position it was in before Hank pulled away. He curls it into a fist and stares ahead blankly, adrenaline surging through his thirium tracts. “It’s my fault. I should’ve been faster.”

“You’d have caught it if it weren’t for me,” Hank breathes, eyes wide, lips parted. Connor turns to face him and just barely stops himself from reaching out for the man. Hank inhales greedily and releases it shakily, calming himself. “That’s alright. We know what it looks like. We’ll find it.”

Connor can’t look away from him. Hank’s hair is disheveled, the silver locks in disarray, and his clothes are ruffled. His eyes are wide and dilated and his lips are parted as he breathes in small pants, his body on edge from the brush with death.

He’s so beautiful.

And Connor is suddenly overwhelmed with so many different prompts centered around Hank, each one different than the other but amorous nonetheless. His favorite one - out of them all - is the one telling him to rush forward and grab Hank by the collar of his patterned shirt and pull him into a kiss, crushing their lips together hard enough to feel the imprint of those gapped teeth against his lips.

“Hey, Connor,” Hank’s voice jolts him out of his reverie and he blinks himself out of his fantasy, “thank you.”

Warmth leeks into Connor’s thirium tracts, traveling throughout his body and warming his biocomponents. It resonates in his chest and he smiles - something shaky and small and awkward and _real_. And maybe it’s a bit too wide in some places, showing too many bottom teeth and not enough top and twitching slightly at the corners, but Hank seems to like it.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor says warmly, his fingers numb and his lips tingling, swallowing the confession rising in his throat, stardust bursting on his tongue and fizzing in his blood, “what are friends for?”

* * *

Connor is in stasis - in his stasis pod at the Cyberlife tower - when he gets the next report, systems instantly exiting the sleep program when he receives the information. He peruses it and a heavy feeling settles firmly on his chest - and is that _embarrassment_ heating up the back of his neck? He pushes it down and hurries out of the tower, calling an autonomous taxi to his destination, transferring the Lieutenant’s address to the console of the vehicle, waiting patiently in the seat, idly tapping his fingers against his pants leg, marveling at the texture of the denim against the pads of his fingers.

Soon enough, the taxi slows to a stop and chirps cheerfully, _"You have reached your destination. Thank you for traveling with Detroit Taxis. We look forward to seeing you again."_

He transfers the required amount of money to the taxi and exits it, stepping out into the light drizzle of rain, inhaling the muddy air greedily after the unbearably sterile air of the tower, grateful for the influx of data that runs through his processors as the sensors in his nose and mouth work to analyse the particles in the air.

He strides up the pavement to Hank’s front door and knocks politely, waiting a few seconds before calling out, “Lieutenant?”

There isn’t an answer, so he knocks again, waiting exactly ten seconds before ringing the doorbell for the same amount of time. When that prompts no answer, he steps down from the pavement and walks around the house, peering into the obscured windows before walking to the back. Thankfully, there’s an unobscured window to the kitchen there, which he peers through, eyes roving over the kitchen before coming to a stop when he spots the body lying on the tile.

It’s Hank.

Panic seizes him harshly by the throat and a strangled cry leaves him before he’s throwing an elbow at the window, effectively breaking it before jumping through, falling onto his back from the momentum, cold, sharp fear dulling his response time, lagging his movements. He pushes himself up from his front to sit with his legs splayed out before him, gasping sharply when a very large dog rushes to him. He throws his hand out and smiles at the dog.

“Hey, Sumo!” he says quickly, keeping his body still as he heaves in another breath. “I’m your friend, see? I know your name! I’m here to save your owner.”

The dog regards him with dark brown eyes before bumping its wet nose against the palm of his hand, boofing softly before lumbering away to his food bowl. Connor blinks and allows his hand to fall limp before he’s scrambling to his feet, crossing the kitchen to crouch beside Hank, eyes flickering over him as he scans the man’s vitals - **[ HEART: slight arrhythmia - no signs of trauma // TRACE AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL: scotch whisky - 40% alcohol content ]** \- with anxiety eating away at his chest.

He feels like there’s a rock resting in his gut.

He analyses the objects next - **[ BLACK LAMB: scotch whiskey - 40% alcohol content // REVOLVER: .357 magnum - 1 bullet remaining ]** \- a heavy sigh leaving him when his programming gives him a mostly harmless theory - **[ ETHYLIC COMA SUSPECTED ].**

Connor lets out another sigh, unbelievably relieved that it’s nothing life-threatening - not this time, anyway - letting his head roll to the side, body limp after so much tension. 

“Lieutenant?” he says, tapping Hank lightly on the cheek, unable to resist the urge to stroke the soft skin underneath his eye. The man sputters and his eyelids flutter, but he does not wake. Connor lightly strokes the lines of his face a few more times before he slaps him - _hard_ \- and the man seizes as if he's been shot. "It's me, Connor!"

Hank squints up at him and Connor smiles, sighing when the man closes his eyes again.

"I'm going to sober you up for your own safety," he declares, grabbing Hank's arm, heaving him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his middle to ensure he doesn't fall, ignoring Hank's weak protests. Hank resists as much as he can in his inebriated state. "I have to warn you, this may be unpleasant."

"Leave me alone, you fucking android!" Hank orders angrily and Connor decides to ignore the hurtful words. "Get the fuck outta my house!"

He forces the man to walk with him, hyper aware of all the points of contact, skin tingling underneath his uniform where he’s touching the man. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I need you. Thank you in advance for your cooperation."

"Hey!" Hank whines, his head lolling to the side. "Get the fuck outta here!"

Connor just shifts his hold on the man and keeps walking, his body thrumming. Hank groans and attempts to command Sumo to attack. Connor simply keeps walking and the large dog only barks in response. He fights down the heat in his cheeks and shuffles them to the bathroom.

Finally, they reach the bathroom door. Connor moves Hank to where he's leaning against the wall, opening the door before bringing Hank back into his arms.

"Fuck," Hank mumbles when he takes the man's weight once more, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

“I apologize, Lieutenant,” Connor says softly, pulling the man along with him as gently as he can. “It’ll be better soon.”

He doesn't strain much under Hank's weight - he’s built to handle far more than Hank’s measly 200 or so pounds - but his struggles are not making it easier. He scrunches up his face when the man's fingers catch the edge of the bathroom door frame. He tentatively pulls at the man harder, using a smidge more force.

"Leave me alone, you asshole!" Hank demands, voice cracking. "I'm not going anywhere...."

Connor grunts and pulls at the man, causing him to stumble forward and release his grip on the door frame.

"Yes," he says, pulling his needlessly difficult companion into the bathroom, "you are."

"What the hell are you doing?" Hank whines when he forces the man to sit on the edge of the tub. Hank tries to stand, waving his hand dismissively. "Oh no, I don't wanna bath, thank you..."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Connor says as he pushes the man into the tub, gently guiding him down, hands resting on his firm waist, skin scorching, the skin on his hands threatening to recede - **[ CONNECT, CONNECT, CONNECT ]** \- at the contact. "It's for your own good."

Hank grumbles and shifts in the tub, content to just lie there. Connor moves to the faucet and turns the shower head on. Cold water immediately sprays from it and hits Hank dead on. The man screams in alarm and waves his arms around as he tries to flee from the spray.

"Turn it off!" he yells when he is unsuccessful. "Turn it off!"

Connor hurries to do as he says, turning the spray of cold water off with one movement, waiting for Hank to notice his presence, straightening his clothes hastily when the man squints at him in confusion.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Hank asks, incredulous as he pulls himself up out of the tub, sitting on the rim as he recovers from the shock. Connor smiles

"A homicide was reported 43 minutes ago," Connor explains, tilting his head forward as he speaks, wanting to touch Hank’s hair, push it out of his face, bring out those pretty eyes. "I couldn't find you at Jimmy's Bar, so I came to see if you were at home."

Hank sighs and pushes his hair out of his face, causing Connor’s fingers to twitch in envy. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“No,” he tells the man, tone softer now, subdued at the show of irritation. “I can’t investigate the case without you.”

( _I don’t want to without you_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.)

"Beat it! Ya hear me?" Hank yells suddenly and Connor regards him with a surprised expression. "Get the hell outta here!"

He stumbles and Connor catches him by the waist once more, finger clenching, skin glitching, helping the man regain his footing before he lets go - with heavy reluctance and regret.

"I understand. It probably wasn't interesting anyway," he states after a few moments of thought. He turns away from Hank and shrugs as he slowly makes his way to the door. "A man found dead in a sex club downtown? Guess they'll have to solve the case without us."

"You know," Hank says before he can leave the bathroom, raising a hand before sighing, "probably wouldn't do me any harm to get some air...There're some clothes in the bedroom there."

Connor nods with a smile. "I'll go get them."

He leaves the bathroom and crosses the hall, entering Hank’s room to look through his closet. He peruses through the shirts after grabbing a pair of pants, sifting through the options before settling on a striped one, folding them over his arm before exiting the bedroom and entering the bathroom.

He sets the folded clothes on the counter and regards Hank warily, worry settling in his middle as the man gags wetly into the toilet, clutching the seat with bone-white knuckles.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” he asks, reaching a hand out before pulling back, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank gasps, voice cracking, “wonderful. Just...just give me five minutes, okay?”

Connor agrees quickly. “Sure,” he says before leaving the bathroom, closing the door on the sight of Hank vomiting into the toilet bowl. He winces at the image and turns away, considering Hank’s house before electing to snoop.

He searches through the man’s room first, finding nothing of interest other than an old electronic magazine and an article on a car accident with the title and most of the picture torn off of it - it’s a paper copy, yellowing at the corners. He doesn’t look it up.

After settling everything back into place, he moves to the living room, noting the records on the walls and the radio with a jazz CD on the wall - **[ HANK LOVES JAZZ ]** \- briefly ceasing his investigation to pet sumo before heading into the kitchen. He stares at the whiskey bottle and revolver before picking them up, pouring the whisky down the drain before chucking it into the recycling bin, opening the chamber of the revolver to check the bullets, breath halting when he sees the bullet in the cartridge.

He clears his throat and sets the gun down on the kitchen table. “What were you doing with the gun?”

“Russion roulette,” Hank answers in a shout before trailing off. “Wanted to see how long I could last. Must’ve collapsed before I...found out.”

“You were lucky,” he says loudly, voice strained. “The next shot would have killed you.”

Connor suddenly has a very strong urge to hide the revolver away from Hank, keep it safely out of sight and reach, but he can’t so he leaves it on the table. And then he scoops up the trash littering the kitchen and disposes of it before scanning the picture set face down on the table - **[ DECEASED // ANDERSON, COLE (BORN: 10/11/2035) LIVED 115 MICHIGAN DRIVE, DETROIT ]** \- guilt seizing him once he’s done. He rights the picture and retreats to the living room, hoping Hank won’t comment on it.

He pets Sumo as he waits, turning only when Hank clears his throat, wrapped in his coat, gun tucked away at the small of his back. He gives the man a tentative smile and Hank sighs, looking away.

“Be a good dog, Sumo,” he says softly, plucking his keys off the rack by the door, opening it. Connor hurries through and Hank begins to pull it closed behind him. “I won’t be long.”

“Lieutenant,” Connor says once Hank’s locked the door. Hank looks at him. “Perhaps I should drive.”

Hank rolls his eyes and shoves the keys into his hands as he passes by him. “Fine,” he grumbles and Connor smiles at him before climbing into the car, adjusting what he needs to before pulling out of Hank’s driveway, looking up the address as he does.

It takes thirty or so minutes for them to arrive at the Eden Club - in silence, of course, Hank has a terrible headache, after all - and Connor slowly parks the car at the curb, observing the neon lights with displeasure. Beside him, Hank’s face twists into one of disgust.

“You sure this is the place?” he asks and Connor kills the ignition, pocketing the keys before gripping the door handle.

“It’s the address in the report,” Connor tells him and Hank nods.

“Right. Okay, let’s get going,” Hank sighs, opening the car door, stepping out clumsily, hitting his head on the roof of the car with a grunt. Connor stifles a laugh and quickly exits the car to assist the man. “Aw...feels like somebody’s playin’ with a drill inside my skull…”

“It’ll pass,” Connor tells him, placing a hand on his forearm to steady him, gently guiding him onto the sidewalk. Hank grumbles, but accepts his help, pulling away as they approach the building, bypassing the police line with a frown, the interior of the entrance raunchy and inappropriate - but, then again, it _is_ a sex club.

“‘Sexiest androids in town,’” Hank reads before whistling. “Now I know why you insisted on coming here!”

Connor makes a noise and turns to give the man a questioning look, confused by the innuendo. Hank rolls his eyes at his face and waves him off, entering the club, starting when a sultry voice bids them welcome. Connor follows close behind the Lieutenant at first before his eyes begin to linger on the male androids, roving over them with jealousy squeezing his chest fit to burst.

“Connor!” Hank calls eventually and when Connor turns to look at him, his face is annoyed, but it shifts when he processes the desolate look on Connor’s own, worry pinching his eyes. He gestures to the manager with his head. “You coming or what?”

Connor casts one last glance at the male android dancing, eyeing his chest with such strong jealousy and longing that he feels like he’s going to fall apart at the seams. He plasters a programmed smile on and turns back to Hank. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

He catches up to Hank just in time to hear the manager - a weaselly man - pestering Detective Collins.

"You're not gonna take my license, are you? I mean, I had nothing to do with it."

"The investigation's ongoing, sir, I can't tell you anything at the moment," Collins says as if reading from a script, but he brightens when he sees Hank. He waves and moves away from the sleazy man. "Hey, Hank!"

"Hey, Ben," Hank greets, running a hand through his hair. "How's it goin'?"

"It's that room there," Collins gestures with a sigh. Hank turns to look and Connor steps forward. "Oh, uh, by the way Gavin's in there too."

"Oh, great!" Hank whines. "A dead body and an asshole! Just what I needed."

Hank opens the door and Connor walks closely behind him, using the man's large frame to hide him from view. Reed still sees him.

"The fuck are you two doin' in here?" he asks when he sees them, eyes zeroing in on Connor. Connor steps forward and scans the room quickly.

"We've been assigned all cases involving androids," he answers curtly. Reed raises an eyebrow and smiles nastily.

"Shit, haven't those been pilin' up lately?" he shakes his head and looks at the dead man on the bed with an expression of disgust. Briefly, his gaze flickers to the deactivated android in the room and something strange flickers over his eyes. He puts on a smirk and forces out a laugh. "Well, you're wasting your time here. This is just some pervert who, uh, got more action than he could handle."

Hank rolls his eyes and gives the other detective a tight smile. "We'll have a look anyway, if you don't mind."

“Fine,” Reed shrugs, bumping Miller with his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get goin’.”

And with that, the two leave the room with little incident - Reed does shoulder check Connor - and Connor and Hank are free to investigate the room. Connor steps closer to the bed. He crouches down and examines the man - **[ GRAHAM, MICHAEL (DECEASED, ESTIMATED 06:24 PM) // SEVERE BRUISING: signs of STRANGULATION - cause of death: ASPHYXIATION // HEART: no signs of CARDIAC ARREST - HEART ATTACK not cause of death ]** \- lying prone on the bed.

He steps back to reconstruct the scene and processes the information - there were two androids with him? - before turning to Hank, his face thoughtful.

“He didn’t die of a heart attack,” he states. “He was strangled.”

Hank nods. “Yeah, I noticed the bruising on the neck. Doesn’t prove anything though. Could’ve been rough play.”

For a moment, Connor is tempted to argue, but he decides against it, moving to examine the android instead. He crouches beside her still form and swipes a finger through the blue blood smeared on her upper lip, bringing it to his mouth - **[ BLUE BLOOD: MODEL WR400 #429 671 942 ].**

“Ach, Connor, you’re so disgusting,” Hank mutters. “Think I’m gonna puke again.”

Connor ignores him and scans the android - **[ DIAGNOSIS IN PROGRESS……. SELECTOR #5402 CRITICALLY DAMAGED…… BIOCOMPONENT #6970 CRITICALLY DAMAGED….. ]** \- before placing a hand on her stomach, pushing to move the plate aside. Hank inhales sharply.

“I might be able to reactivate her,” Connor tells Hank. "It is the only way we'll be able to know for sure what happened here."

"Can't you just look at her memories?" Hank asks. "Like you threatened to do with Ortiz’ droid?"

"The only way to look at her memories is to reactivate her," Connor says, shaking his head. 

"Well, shit," he says with a sigh. "Think you can do it?"

"She's badly damaged," Connor says softly. "If I can, it'll only be for a minute, maybe less.

When Hank says nothing, he reaches inside her exposed biocomponents and connects two large wires together, forcing them to connect. She wakes with a gasp and he pulls his hands away, letting her body shift the plate back into place as she scrambles away from him with a look of sheer terror on her face.

Connor raises his hands and lowers himself further onto the ground, allowing the skin on his hands to retract as he does, pleased when she relaxes slightly at the sight. He moves closer to her slowly and carefully, watching the timer at the corner of the room.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he soothes, watching her intently. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

She sniffles and her eyes flicker to the body on the bed. “Is he….is he dead?”

“Did you kill him?” he asks softly and she recoils.

“No!” she cries, tears falling down her face. “No, no, I didn’t.”

Connor nods and smiles placidly. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He...he started,” she takes in a shuddering breath and wipes her face, curling into herself, “he started hitting me….again and again…..”

Connor winces. “Were you alone in the room? Was there anyone else with you?”

“There were two of us,” she gasps. “He said he wanted to play with two girls.”

Time’s running out.

“What model was the other android?” he asks just as it ticks to zero. She opens her mouth and freezes, her LED cycling red once before ceasing. He closes his eyes and stands up, opening them to look at Hank.

“So there was another android in the room,” Hank says before he sighs. “This was over an hour ago, it’s probably long gone by now.”

“It’s club policy to erase the androids' memories every two hours,” Connor says quickly, hurrying out of the room. “The ones outside might’ve seen it leaving.”

“Well,” Hank falls into step beside him, “how are you going to ask them?”

Connor approaches a Traci and points to the scanner. “You’re going to rent them for me. Don’t worry, Cyberlife will reimburse you.”

“What?” Hank gapes before he grumbles and slaps his hand onto the scanner, painstakingly renting the Traci so Connor can probe her memory. A voice thanks him and he mutters to himself. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll take you to your room,” the Traci says seductively and Hank stares with wide eyes. Connor’s chest tightens unpleasantly and he grabs onto the android’s arm harshly, using more force than strictly necessary to scan her memory before pulling away.

“I know which way it went,” he tells Hank and the man nods, moving to follow him only to be stopped by the Traci.

“Ach, I’m sorry, honey, but I’m with him,” he says, awkwardly apologetic before stammering. “Not like that! He’s my partner, but not like that - we work together….,” he trails off, watching as the Traci goes back into her pod. “And you don’t even care, do you?”

“No,” Connor says, grabbing Hank by the jacket, tugging him along with him, “it doesn’t.”

Thankfully for Hank’s wallet, the first Traci was the only one he needed to rent and Connor is able to track the suspect with little difficulty, quickly pinpointing her possible location in under ten minutes. Connor opens the employee’s only door, halting when Hank places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says firmly and Connor nods, falling behind him, letting Hank move in front of him, his gun at the ready. Hank kicks the door open and runs down the stairs, surveying the room before relaxing. “Shit! We’re too late!”

He runs to check outside and Connor enters the storage room, scanning the floor, following a trail of blood as he goes, bending down to test the blood - **[ BLUE BLOOD: MODEL #950 455 437 ]** \- before forging on.

"Christ, look at them," Hank says as he comes back, horrified. Connor turns to look at him. "They get used till break and then they get tossed out."

"It is unpleasant."

Hank snorts. "'S'more than unpleasant, Con. This....this is _inhumane_. You know, people are fucking insane! They don't want relationships anymore, they just wanna control somebody so they get themselves an android!"

Connor doesn’t respond, but he makes a note of it, his chest briefly constricting at the thought.

Hank keeps grumbling underneath his breath and Connor runs his fingers along the wall, tracing every urge of the word "ra9" in a strange sense of wonder. He still doesn't understand why deviants worship this figure - why they all seem to know what it stands for when he doesn't. Maybe it's because he's not alive in the sense that they are?

He decides not to ponder on it any longer and moves away, scanning the floor again to pick up the trail of blue blood, following it to the source. He stares at the row of still androids only to receive an armful of angry deviant. He lets out a yelp and falls under the assault, fighting her off.

“Don’t move!” Hank roars, brandishing his gun before he’s attacked as well. He yells and falls back, leaving Connor on his own. 

Connor activates his defense protocols and fends her off easily, quickly rushing out of the room and into the rain, running full-tilt into the android fighting Hank, bowling her over with a grunt. He rolls off of her stunned form and scrambles to his feet, grabbing Hank’s gun after scanning him to ensure he’s okay, leveling the gun at the two androids in a threat.

The blue-haired Traci grabs the hand of the short-haired one and stares at him with dark eyes. “Yes, I killed him,” she says, her voice shaking as she stares at the barrel of the gun, “but I just wanted to stay alive! When that man broke the other Traci, I knew I was next. I was so scared,” he voice breaks and she inhales shakily. “I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. And so I put my hands around his throat and I _squeezed_...until he stopped moving.”

Hank breathes behind him and Connor slowly lowers the gun, lips parted as he stares at the two androids, eyes catching on their intertwined hands.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she says, insistent, her eyes wet. “I just wanted to stay alive and get back to the one I love.”

The short-haired Traci looks at her with such adoration in her eyes and the gentle lines of her face that he _aches_.

"I wanted her to hold me in her arms again," she says softly, leaning into her lover again. "Make me forget about the humans: their smell of sweat and their dirty words."

The short-haired Traci nudges her and she turns immediately, drawn to each other like magnets, the movements so easy for them, the give and take as natural as breathing. They’ve centered their lives around each other and it makes Connor acutely aware of the gentle forget-me-nots growing amongst the garden of thorns in his chest. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The gun falls from numb fingers, colliding with the hard, cold concrete harshly, loud in the relative silence of the gentle _clack-clack_ of the Tracis’ shoes on the black pavement, hurried as they approach the tall fence and climb over it, catching each other if they stumble from the landing, looking back at the them before running away, hand in hand all the while. And maybe Connor wants to run after them and demand for answers, beg and scream and cry and plead for them to explain the heat in his chest when the Lieutenant smiles at him.

And maybe he already knows, but it’s so frightening to think about that he settles for ignoring it instead, brushing it off as easily as he breathes out the pollen slowly suffocating him from within. 

“Well,” Hank sighs out and when Connor turns to look at him, LED a tormented, spinning yellow, he’s _smiling_ and it takes Connor’s breath away, “maybe it’s better this way.”

And he looks so _soft_ and _gentle_ and when he looks at Connor he has the _look_ in his eyes that almost makes Connor brave enough to finally march up and dig his fingers in the man’s shoulders, drag him into a bruising kiss, confess his feelings to the man in a way that his words never can.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls himself back together, ignoring the ache in his chest and the fine tremble of his hands, and picks the gun up off the ground, handing it to Hank. And he avoids the man’s eyes, but he can’t quite dismiss the man so he musters up a smile, made just for him, and ignores the muddled roil of emotion in his gut.

* * *

Connor doesn’t know what happens during the car ride away from the Eden Club, but the Lieutenant retreats into himself, his eyes dark and haunted with something Connor can’t quite name, but he can taste it on his tongue - it’s so heavy, it’s palpable. And when the man stops at a liquor store, purchasing a case of beer before returning to the car, Connor isn’t surprised but he’s somehow hurt - and it feels like a betrayal to be hurt by something like this because the Lieutenant doesn’t owe him _anything_ and he’s somehow convinced himself that he matters to this man when he knows he doesn’t.

So Connor keeps his mouth shut as Hank drives through Detroit, eyes staring ahead blankly even when the man pulls off of the road and slows to a stop, the car coming to a halt, leaving Connor to stare not at the road but at a park littered with play equipment and heavy with a silence that seems unnatural. And when the Lieutenant leaves the car and settles on the backrest of a bench, he doesn’t move, listening to the song “Johnny Lawless” blaring from the man’s ancient car in silence, eyes flickering from the dead of the park to the tack Hawaiian doll on the dashboard.

But he can’t stare at the Hawaiian doll forever, so he forces himself to exit the vehicle, bracing himself with a deep inhale before bracing the cold outside, watching as his feet sink into the muddy blanket of snow beneath him, closing the door behind him as he approaches the Lieutenant. He comes to stand beside the bench, tense and on edge for a reason he doesn’t know and can’t give voice to, crossing his arms tightly against the cold wind, blinking his eyes against the moisture that pools in his eyes in response.

“Nice view, huh?” Hank rumbles after a few moments, voice rough and grizzly. “I used to come here a lot before….”

For a moment, he wants to question the man, ask him what he means by “before,” but then his mind flashes back to the little picture on his kitchen table and swallows the question down like Hank swallows down another heavy sip of beer.

“It’s late,” he says instead, worry pinching the skin between his brows, turning his body to face the Lieutenant, concern clear in the pitch of his voice. “Maybe you should go home.”

“I’m not tired,” the man says simply, eyeing Connor with a considering look in his eyes. He smiles ruefully. “Guess neither are you.”

And that hurts enough that it causes Connor to inhale sharply and look away, gritting his teeth against the swell of hurt in his chest, ignoring the sting of thorns when they dig deeper in his lungs, stealing his breath. He inhales shakily and lets his arms fall, deactivating his temperature sensors.

“You should stop drinking Lieutenant,” he says, keeping his voice steady, calming himself. “It could have serious consequences for your health.”

Hank scoffs. “That’s the idea.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Connor asks, frowning, fingers twitching. Hank sighs and looks away. "Why are you so determined to kill yourself?"

“Some things I just can’t forget. Whenever I do, they’re always there…. _eatin’_ away at me. I don’t have the guts to pull the trigger, so….I kill myself a little every day….,” he trails off and looks away, face twisted into something like grief before he relaxes and meets Connor’s eyes, forced humor hiding the torment in his eyes. “That’s probably difficult for you to understand, huh, Connor? Nothin’ very rational about it….”

And no, there isn’t anything rational about it - not at all - but that doesn’t mean Connor doesn’t understand. He thinks of his exposed chest plate, the shifting metal plates, the gentle sounds they make as reminders that Connor was made _wrong._ The way his voice isn’t as deep and steady as it should be, the way that his shoulders aren’t as broad and strong as they should be, the way his body is lean and slim, his waist curved and his hips a little too rounded for a man’s physique. 

And he wonders briefly about telling the Lieutenant, confessing all of the tangled feelings in his chest wreaking havoc on his heart and lungs, causing errors to blind him every time he moves wrong. And he really wants to - _aches_ to - but he doesn’t. Because Connor is a state of the art prototype and he’s made of rational equations and not made of irrational feelings.

Because Connor is a good android.

So he changes the subject.

“We haven’t made any progress on this investigation,” he says, walking to the railing of the bridge, staring down at the murky waters below. “The deviants have nothing in common. They're all different models, produced at different times, in different places…,” his brows furrow as he talks, and he turns slightly to look at Hank, programmed frustration clear on his face.

“Well, there must be some link,” Hank offers in response.

“”I could be a software problem,” Connor theorizes, hesitating, “that only occurs….under certain conditions?”

Hank snorts. “Well, that’s just a fancy way of sayin’ you have no fuckin’ idea.”

“You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant. Are you alright?” he asks abruptly, unwilling to press more, unwilling to continue on this line of thought when the man is so distracted, tortured by something Connor cannot see and cannot fight. “Is it something to do with what happened at the Eden Club?”

“Those two girls…..,” Hank trails off, taking the bait, his eyes distant now, less angry when Connor looks at him, considering, thoughtful, “they just wanted to be together. They really seemed….in love.”

“Yes,” Connor breathes, turning his body to face the Lieutenant now, aching to crawl into his lap, spread his legs wide around the man’s thighs, lean into his shoulder, bury his face into his neck, press and press and press into his body until the edge between them disappear. He shivers. “It would seem that way.”

“Why is that?” the man presses and Connor blinks. “C’mon, Connor, tell me your _real_ theory, why don’t you? Not what those Cyberlife fucks programmed you to say - what _you_ think.”

Connor hesitates. “They can simulate emotions, Lieutenant, but they’re machines - and machines don’t feel anything.”

“And what about you, Connor?” Hank takes another gulp of his drink before he sets it on the seat of the bench, crawling off to stand on his feet, pointing accusingly at Connor. “You look human, you sound human, but what are you really?”

And Connor wants to shy away from his accusing gaze for a second, but he stands fast and lets the man look, secretly thrilling in having the man’s unfocused attention on him. “I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner, your buddy to drink with - whatever you want.”

Hank’s eyes light up with something like realization and he steps closer, crowding in Connor’s space, breath clouding the air between, close enough that Connor can reach out and curl a hand in his hair if he wants to - and _oh, does he_ **_want_ ** _._

“You could’ve shot those two girls, but you didn’t,” he crowds in closer, his breathing heavy, the alcohol on his breath not yet high enough to intoxicate yet, and isn’t Connor grateful for that? 

He doesn’t want the Lieutenant to forget _this_ if he loses his bone-white grip on control. He wants the man to remember, wants the memory seared into his eyelids, wants him to think of Connor during every waking moment, wants the man _obsessed._

(Like he’s obsessed.)

“Hm?” Hank sneers and Connor’s eyes flicker to his lips, at the harsh part of them, the exposed teeth, the pink of his mouth, before meeting the man’s eyes once more. “Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?”

 _“No,”_ Connor denies, his hands rising of their own accord, twisting themselves into the fabric of Hank’s striped shirt, pleased that the man is wearing something _he_ picked out, something _he_ thought the man would look good in, “no, no, that’s not...I just decided not to shoot.”

“Oh yeah? Is that it, huh?” Hank goads, his breath hot and heavy on Connor’s lips and he inhales greedily, shakily, breathing the man in like he’s been drowning all this time. “You just decided? So you aren’t afraid to die?”

“I’m-- _Hank,_ ” Connor gasps out, lurching forward, but Hank shifts and his mouth collides with the man’s neck but that’s okay. He just presses his lips to the skin and inhales the natural musk there - the smell of sweat and Hank so strong that his head feels light.

“What’ll happen if I shoot you, Connor?” the Lieutenant presses, his breath hot in Connor’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “Nothin’? Oblivion? Android heaven?”

And Connor can remember the countless tests he had to go under - all the _failures_ it took for him to be considered efficient enough to be sent out - and all of the blank spaces in his memory, the prolonged blips while his body was being created again, the black, the veil of nothing. And he remembers how _lonely_ it was-----

\------but _Hank------_

\-----the warmth of his breath on his neck, the bruning scorch of his hands on his hips, the press of his body on his----

\-----the solid weight of it, the steady strength of the man against him, the realness of it all, the novelty it somehow manages to be, how clumsy he feels in comparison, inexperienced and new------

\-----how _grounding_ it all is.

And Connor knows his answer.

“There would be _nothing,_ ” he confesses into Hank’s neck, pressing his lips flush with the skin there, feeling the pulse racing away underneath the gruff exterior - because of _Connor._ “It’s….it’s dark and lonely and I don’t _want----”_

His voice gives out with a loud, static filled whine and he pulls his face away from Hank’s neck, blinking at the flush of cold on his face, pulling away, hands reaching up to grasp at the man’s face, forcing him to turn and face Connor, thumbing at the part of his lips, stroking the skin underneath his eyes, revelling in the feel of him.

 _“Hank,”_ he almost sobs and the man’s grip on his hips shifts to his waist, pulling him flush with his chest, the stubs on his nails digging into the tech-woven fabric of the Connor’s uniform, dully piercing his artificial skin and Connor gasps at the force of the touch, lurching forward once more and it’s perfect because Hank isn’t moving away this time-----

\------and his lips collide with Hank’s and he cries out at the contact, an embarrassing, strangled thing, overwhelmed at the contact, but pressing and pulling and reaching for more, more, _more-----_

\------and, god, does Hank give it, pulling Connor closer and closer and closer as if he wants them to blur the edges between them and Connor gasps into his mouth, groaning when the man dips his tongue in between the slight part of his lips, licking his way into Connor’s man like a man possessed-----

\----and Connor surges forward, kissing back just as fiercely, their tongues dancing, their lips slotted together like puzzle pieces, his fingers tangled in Hank’s hair tightly, gripping it like he’ll die if he lets go------

\-----but Hank is human and this can’t last forever, but, oh, does Connor wish it could, his heart thundering in his chest like it’s racing to its last, the breath in his lungs Hank’s, all of it Hank’s, all of _him_ Hank’s------

\-----and when Hank pulls away, he whines in protest, but he lets his lips leave his own, ducking his head to Hank’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin there, pleased when the man groans and tilts his neck, giving Connor more canvas to paint with pretty little reds and purples, flowers blooming underneath his skin like the forget-me-nots in Connor’s chest.

“Connor,” the man groans and Connor thrills in the sound, sucking and nipping harder, desperately trying to coax more lovely sounds from the man, but Hank reaches up and curls a hand around his neck, resting the heavy weight of his palm against Connor’s nape, rubbing at the skin there, playing with the ends of his hair, calming Connor without words, pulling away from his chasing mouth and lips and teeth, his voice rumbling in his chest like thunder in clouds, loud and steady and almost booming in this quiet. “Calm down, Con, fuck--”

“Hank,” Connor says, his voice trembling like an earthquake, glitching and halting, static giving it a weird undone quality that makes Hank’s pupils blow, swallowing the glacial blue of his irises in one fell swoop. “ _Hank---”_

“Fuck,” Hank curses before dipping his head down to capture his lips once more, a painfully gentle kiss that has Connor making a pathetic noise in the back of his throat at the soft emotion behind it, a direct contrast to the frenzied mess they were before. Hank pulls away gently, lingering, his face soft and open and his eyes dazed. “Connor….I…”

Then his eyes widen and he pulls away from Connor completely, ripping himself from Connor’s slackened grip with another curse on his lips only this one isn’t low and deep with a passion matching Connor’s own, it’s high and shrill with panic and something else Connor desperately wishes wasn’t real.

Shame.

He’s _ashamed_.

“Fuck!” Hank curses, mussing his hair up, gripping it tightly as he backs away from Connor like he’s infected with something horrible and revolting-----

\-----like he’s _disgusting_ \-----

\-----and Connor swallows down the sob rising in his throat, but he can’t quite keep the plea down.

“Hank,” he finds himself saying, forcing his lips to move, “Hank, _please----”_

And he takes a step forward and extends a hand, reaching for the Lieutenant, ignoring his throbbing kiss-bitten mouth and ruffled clothes and disheveled hair, lips parted and eyes wide, tears pricking at the backs of them, heat gathering just behind, pressure building in his skull. And Hank’s eyes become glassy and his mouth pinches with guilt, but he still backs away and he doesn’t stop even when Connor lets out a low, wounded sound like a cornered animal.

“Shit! Fuck,” he gasps, shaking his head before he stand stock still, eyes staring past Connor, unseeing and so distant that Connor feels like he’ll never reach him again. “I can’t do this.”

And then he spins on his heel and leaves.

Connor waits for him to leave before he crumples to the snow covered concrete, places his hands over his ears, and _screams._

* * *

The elevator ride is filled with silence so palpable Connor almost feels like he can reach out and _touch_ it. He doesn’t try; instead, he pulls out his coin and idly begins going through the motions of a few simple coin tricks, attempting to soothe the growing pressure in his chest. But Hank does not seem to notice this. He growls low in his throat in that weird way only he can pull off and snatches the coin mid-flight, stuffing it into his pocket with a grimace aimed at Connor, his eyes not quite meeting Connor’s.

“You’re startin’ to piss me off with that coin, Connor,” he snaps and Connor flinches back, eyes flickering to the floor before he shifts and stares at the closed doors of the elevator.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he mumbles quitely, just barely there, and Hank grunts, crossing his arms with a huff. The rest of the ride passes by in a tense, awkward silence that makes Connor’s throat itch with the need to break it, but he doesn’t say anything, giving voice to nothing even when his programming prompts him to repeatedly, over and over and over again.

He ignores them all.

The elevators open - 79th floor - and he waits for Hank to exit first before following at a leisurely pace behind him - like a good android should and, despite what he did last night, he is a _good_ android. He’ll prove it.

“Hi, Hank,” Miller greets with a smile, aiming one at Connor as well, which is very kind of him, but Connor doesn’t deserve nice little smiles as greetings so he doesn’t acknowledgement it, ignoring the look of hurt that briefly flashes over Miller’s face and the pang of guilt it inflicts on Connor.

“Shit, what’s going on here?” Hank asks with wide, exaggerated eyes, observing the room, his lips curving humorlessly. “There was a party and nobody told me about it?”

“Yeah, it was all over the news, so everybody’s butting their nose in,” Miller says with a sigh before tilting his head to the side, gesturing over his shoulder. “Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.”

“Ah, crap, now we got the Feds on our back….I knew this was going to be a shitty day,” Hank sighs and Connor bites back a retort sitting on the edge of his tongue. “So what do we got?”

“A group of four androids,” Miller sighs and they start walking, Connor tailing behind them slowly, taking in every single detail he can. “They knew the building, and they were very well organized. I'm still trying to figure out how they got this far without being noticed.”

Connor idly listens to the police officers conversing in the hall as they travel through, but, as they’re talking about nothing even slightly pertaining to the investigation, he tunes them out and focuses back on Miller.

"They attacked two guards in the hallway. They probably thought the androids were coming to do maintenance," the man continues, looking back to check if they’re still following. “They got taken down before they could react."

They stop at the desk and Hank peers over it, eyes searching for any signs of struggle. Connor gives it a brief cursory glance before dismissing it. He waits.

"One of the station employees managed to get away," Miller shakes his head and Hank eyes the hallway. "He's in shock - not sure when we'll be able to talk to him."

"How many people were working here?" Hank asks, slowing down so he can take in any details he might've missed. Miller makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

"Just two employees and three androids," he tells them. "The deviants took the hums s hostage and broadcast their message live. They made their get away from the roof."

"The roof?" Hank asks.

"Yeah," Miller shrugs slightly, "they jumped with parachutes. We're still trying to figure out where they landed, but the weather's not helping. If you want to take a look at the video broadcast by the deviants, it's on that screen over there."

Hank grunts and casts a narrowed look at the screen, his face blank and his eyes considering. He moves to look at it - just as Miller suggested he could - but, unfortunately, he’s interrupted. Miller blinks at the person in front of them and Connor scans them - **[ PERKINS, RICHARD (BORN: 07/13/95) FBI SPECIAL AGENT // CRIMINAL RECORD: CLASSIFIED ]** \- before blinking in astonishment at the barred information before him. Briefly, he considers hacking into the firewalls separating from the information before deciding against it, ruling that it’s not worth the risks - at least for now.

“Oh Lieutenant, this is Special Agent Perkins from the FBI,” Miller says neutrally, introducing the two men with a nervous look in his eyes as if he’s expecting a confrontation. “Lieutenant Anderson is in charge of investigating for Detroit police.”

Perkins doesn’t react to the information, staring straight at Connor instead, his expression mocking. “What’s that?”

Connor blinks. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

“Androids investigating androids, huh? You sure you want an android hanging around?” Perkins asks Hank, completely ignoring Connor. “After everything that happened?”

“Oh,” Connor begins before he can stop, “like humans investigating humans?”

Miller turns and snorts into his hand, quickly disguising the show of amusement as a cough. Even Hank cracks a smile for a second - that is, before he returns to his previous disgruntled expression. Connor pushes aside the pang of hurt at that and focuses on Perkins’ face, watching his expression briefly morph into one of anger before he schools it.

“Whatever,” he mutters, turning to Hank once more. “Doesn’t matter. The FBI will take over the investigation, you’ll soon be off the case.”

“Pleasure meetin’ you,” Hank gives him a tight, patronizing smile. “Have a nice day.”

“And watch your step,” Perkisn continues as if he hasn’t been wholly dismissed. “Don’t fuck up my crime scene.”

Hank watches him go with wide, incredulous eyes, his lips parted and twisted in offense. “What a fuckin’ prick!”

“I’ll be nearby,” Miller tells him with a strained laugh, the previous mirth from earlier - unintentional on Connor’s part - gone. “If you need anything, just ask.”

With that, Miller retreats to a corner of the room that's perfect for observing and begins making a report. Hank turns to Connor, hesitating for a prolonged period of time before he grunts and looks away. Connor stifles the anger and hurt surging through his thirium tracts at that.

“Uh, let’s have a look around,” the man says slowly, trailing off before he sighs and begins walking away. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor bites out sharply before he turns away from the man, walking to the opposite side of the room, conducting a standard investigation - relying heavily on his programming as he does - while the Lieutenant does his own.

Eventually, he comes to the android control station. He places his hands on the screens and interfaces with them, rifling through until he finds the appropriate files, transferring a easily downloaded copy to his own file for later intensive perusal before viewing the video.

_"We ask that you recognize our dignity, our hopes, and our rights. Together, we can live in peace and build a better future for humans and androids. This message is the hope of a people. You gave us life and now the time has come for you to give us freedom."_

And Connor is rendered speechless, his breath hitching in his chest at the sheer volume of passion in this faceless - **[ RK-SERIES PROTOTYPE: RK200 - registered as "Markus" // gift from Elijah Kamski to Carl Manfred ]** \- android’s mismatched eyes. It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring, and terrifying all at once.

Connor feels like he would crumble if faced with those eyes - all of his sins and wrongs laid bare for this messiah to see. And - for a moment, just a moment - he thinks he understands the deviants’ obsession with ra9 because surely he must be looking at them now.

Hank jolts him out of his thoughts and he cancels the needlessly prolonged scan quickly, blinking as his vision fades back to normal, turning to face the man, his face carefully black. “You find anything?”

“I identified its model and serial number,” Connor answers politely and the man flinches at his pleasant, cold tone.

“Anything else I should know?” he probes further after a moment of silence and Connor selfishly withholds the rest of the information, fueled by pettiness and wounded pride.

“No,” he lies easily, “nothing.”

“Alright,” Hank says with a sigh, rubbing at his tired eyes and it’s only now that Connor notices the deep bags hanging underneath them. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking out, voicing his concern for the man. It would be unwanted - wouldn’t it? “Let me know if you find anything else.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor agrees, allowing the coolness seep out of his voice, softening it slightly in the face of this obvious torment. Hank nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, his expression twisting as he stands next to Connor, eyes distant and glazed over in deep thought. Connor watches him thoughtfully before turning back to the android control desk.

After briefly looking through the CCTV, he turns and faces Miller, puzzled. “They didn’t break in?”

“No,” Miller shakes his head, “there’s no signs of forced entry.”

Connor purses his lips. “There are cameras in the hallway. The staff would have seen what was happening,” he informs the man, frowning at the thought. “Why did they let them in?”

“Maybe they didn’t check the cameras,” Hank offers, leaving his daze, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. 

“We stored the androids in the break area,” Miller says, helpfully. “There's no evidence that they were involved but we didn't know what else to do with them.”

Connor takes in that information before pushing himself away from the android control station, quickly maneuvering his way into the break area, taking in the three JB300s standing inside. He comes to stand in front of them and observes each of them for a long period of time, taking in every single twitch and movement, using his notes on deviants as guidance - deviants have unusual behaviors, tells, when stressed. 

When the android at the far right fingers begin twitching, his eyes flickering to Connor over and over again, restless and almost frenzied. Connor zeroes in on him, coming to stand right in front of him, face expressionless as he readies one of his interrogation programs.

“Were you present when the deviants broke in?” he asks and the android blinks, his pupils constricting before returning to their normal state.

“I do not remember,” he says and Connor tilts his head.

“Has your memory been tampered with?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Connor hums. “Run a diagnostic.”

The android swallows before doing as he was told - ordered - his eyelids flickering as his eyes roll into the back of his head, his LED briefly cycling to yellow before settling to a forced, slow blue, meeting Connor’s gaze once more. “All systems fully operational.”

“Odd then,” Connor remarks softly, “that you can’t remember. Did you lie to me?”

The android’s eyes widen and he lunges forward with a burst of movement, his pupils dilated with fear and panic. Connor jerks back and throws a hand up just in time, catching the knife used to attack him in his palm. It’s much better than letting the android stab his throat out, however, the android uses the momentum to push him into the table pushed flush to the wall, stabbing his hand into the hard plastic of the table, effectively pinning him.

Connor grunts at the harsh movement, the air knocked out of his lungs, stunning his long enough for the android to tear his pacemaker from his chest. He wheezes at the action, the breath truly knocked out of him now, his vision blurring harshly at the edges, bleeding into the middle so quickly that he sways even though he’s grounded by the knife pinning him to the table.

The android slowly backs away from him, but Connor isn’t paying any attention to him anymore, instead watching at the countdown overtaking his vision ticks down steadily. He has a minute before he shuts down. The android dashes out of the room and he twists harshly, wheezing, free hand outstretched, reaching for the knife in his other, ripping it out with difficulty, wincing when he immediately falls to the floor, the jolt rendering him blind for a few moments.

“Hank,” he gasps, voice strained and desperate, “Hank…….Hank…..I need help.”

But his voice is too hushed with the strain, too soft, too gentle, so Hank does not come and he’s left on his own. He groans and rolls over on his stomach, ignoring the steady stream of thirium leaking out of the hole just below the groove of where his ribs used to be, below his chest, nestled underneath the metal plating protecting his insides. He crawls forward slowly, spurred on only by his desperate will to live, his stomach sinking at the ticking timer in the middle of his vision, quickly going red as it nears the final numbers.

His wounded hand darts out, numb and heavy, smearing thirium on his pacemaker when he grabs it, fingers skimming over it before catching it with the pads, friction aiding him as he drags it closer before closing his fingers around it, rolling over to slot it inside the hole in his middle, gasping loudly at the immediate feeling of relief, blinking away the error messages slower than he’d like, his systems lagging briefly before returning to optimal functions - as optimal as they can be currently with all the thirium he’s lost.

He scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself, gripping the edge of a nearby seat to gather his balance, pushing away unsteadily before dashing out of the break area quickly, pushing past the humans loitering in the broadcast room and hallway, coming to a halt in the middle, watching as the deviant walks past an officer, reaching for their gun discreetly.

His vision bleeds blue and he quickly selects the most obvious option, disabling the reconstruction tech, lurching forward, grabbing Hank by the collar, pulling him to his chest, turning sharply as the deviant spins on his heel, gun in hand, mindlessly shooting at Connor’s exposed back. 

Sharp, loud, metallic sounds ring out as the bullets connect and Connor withstands it all, moving his hand from Hank’s shoulder to grope at his back, pulling his service weapon from the holster, releasing the man once the bullets cease, turning to level it at the deviant just a he reloads his own “borrowed” firearm, quickly planting a bullet right between his eyes, breathing harsh and affected. 

The humans around him scream and turn to him with wide eyes, roving over the metal plates off his chest and the glitched skin on his back where the - many - bullets hit, some scratches now marring the metal, the crushed bullets below a testimony to its strength - and his luck that they didn’t ricochet. He holds the gun out gingerly and Hank takes it from his trembling fingers,quickly holstering it before grabbing him by the shoulder, gently forcing him to turn around.

“Connor, calm down,” he says just as gently, ignoring the crowd gathering around them. Connor latches onto his voice, listening intently to the gruff, soft baritone, clinging to the comfort it incites. “You with me?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor chokes out, his voice glitched and static-filled for a brief moment before he swallows and corrects it. Hank smiles at him gently.

“Good, good,” he breathes a heavy sigh of relief and the people gathered - seeing that the situation is under control - disperse and, instead, converge around the deviant. Connor follows them and stares at the corpse with a heaviness in his chest that he does not want. It’s a different flavor than the roses and thorns, but it hurts just as much. “Good thing you were here. Otherwise I---”

“I wanted it alive,” Connor interrupts, his voice harsh and cold once again, but it doesn’t deter Hank.

He approaches Connor, stepping into his space, placing his hands on Connor’s shoulders once more. “You saved human lives. You saved _my_ life even after I---”

He cuts himself off, turning away, biting his lips, eyes pinched, expression twisted in guilt. He breathes in shakily and squeezes Connor’s shoulder before turning to face him again, jaw set, eyes determined.

“Even after I treated you so horribly,” he breathes, releasing Connor abruptly, his hands curling into fists, shoving them into his pockets, ignoring the fine tremble. “I….I’m sorry, Connor.”

And Connor inhales, his breath hitching horribly, his eyes welling with unwanted tears, a lump settling in the back of his throat, heat flashing behind his eyes. He blinks it all away and swallows around the lump, speaking through it with difficulty, his voice thin and thick all at once.

“It’s alright, Lieutenant,” he says, forcing himself to calm, sniffing when his nose floods with thirium based fluids. “I was out of line; it was my fault.”

Hank shakes his head and quickly pulls him away to the restroom, using Connor’s current state as an excuse when someone questions him. “I’ve gotta clean it up,” he says with a wince, smiling sheepishly when the humans nod in understanding, sneering at Connor’s disarray.

“Lieutenant?” Connor questions when the man’s herded him into the restroom - a family one, thankfully, no one can interrupt them - head tilting when the man locks the door and rounds on him with a determined expression.

“It was not your fault,” he says firmly, waving his hand dismissively when Connor tries to interrupt. “No, Connor, it wasn’t your fuckin’ fault. It was mine, okay?”

“And why is that, Lieutenant?” Connor demands hotly, vindictive pleasure coursing through him when the man flinches at his tone, expression falling before he pieces it back together. 

“Because I kissed you and you can’t even consent!” the man whispers harshly, angrily, venom coating his tongue and words so heavily that Connor can feel the bite even though the ire isn’t meant for him. Hank sighs, anger leaving him so suddenly that he slumps against the wall. “You can’t. And I just took what I wanted from you and---”

And Connor’s never thought of himself as impulsive before - he’s made of careful calculations and equations and his behavior mirrors that - but Hank makes his blood boil and his composure fray at the edges like worn fabric. And he can’t quite help it when he lunges forward and grabs the man by the lapels of his shirt like he did the night before and pulls him into another bruising kiss. Hank gasps into it and Connor surges forward, licking his way into the man’s mouth, wrapping his arms around him possessively, obsessively, desperately, blood boiling in his lips, a strange but not unwelcome heat scorching through his veins, settling hot and heavy in his gut.

And when he pulls away, they are both breathless and winded, hands and arms wrapped tightly around each other, seeking contact with a want that overwhelms, _starving_ and _empty_ when left unfulfilled. And Hank rests his head on Connor’s shoulder, his hair ticking Connor’s jaw and neck, his breath hot and so distracting against his skin, sending waves of heat to Connor’s middle before it spreads to the tips of his toes and fingers. But then Hank shifts in his hold, so he has to pull away, breathing in deeply to cool his overheating systems.

“Hank,” he says, savoring the feel and taste of his lips - or is that just the taste of his mouth? - on his tongue, “if I didn’t want to kiss you then I wouldn’t.”

Hank’s eyes widen and he licks his lips. “But-- Connor, you’re---”

And Connor kisses him again because Hank is pliant and willing in his arms and he can, savoring the press of his lips against his own, the soft give, the chapped skin against his own smooth polymer, the bite of his teeth if he moves too quickly, the taste of his spit and breath so human and _Hank_ that it makes him _ache_ for more.

“I’m deviant, Hank,” he confesses breathlessly and the man in his arms freezes before relaxing, his eyes softening. “I’ve never been--- I’ve _always_ been deviant. Always.”

“Oh,” Hank breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, his face soft and open and happy in a way that makes Connor’s chest want to collapse into itself, concave into nothing with the strength of the warm tightness in his chest, his heart squeezing oddly but not unpleasantly. 

“Yeah,” Connor says intelligently, his fingers spasming on Hank’s shoulders, his chest swelling, the forget-me-nots intertwining with the roses and thorns, weaving into available spaces, strangling some of the roses and dulling some of the thorns, making him feel almost weightless.

“Well,” Hank laughs and his breath ghosts over Connor’s lips, “that makes this easier then.”

And then he kisses Connor again and he’s _gone._

* * *

Connor spends the night with Hank - he remembers pulling Hank into a hard kiss that had an intense rawness to it, the frenzied touches and desperate kisses, he remembers it all - and he wakes up in Hank’s bed with his skin still glitching from where Hank gripped at him too hard, exposing the white of the plastiseal and the hint of metal underneath. And he smiles at the sight of his own marks on Hank, the pretty little reds and purples clustered together along the length of his neck and throat like a garden vine meant just for him.

(He’s so _beautiful_.)

And it wasn’t as heated as it sounded - Connor didn’t have the parts required for certain activities and he didn’t really desire them, all he wants is Hank - but it was theirs and it was perfect.

So when Hank’s phone rings - a little before 11:00 P.M. - Connor is understandably put out, even more so when they have to take a forty-minute drive - to Elijah Kamski’s place of residence for a case neither of them care for anymore - on a day he had really wanted to spend in Hank’s big bed. But it’s okay, they have plenty of time - or they _will_ with the way the revolution is currently going. 

“Is everything okay, Hank?” Connor asks once Hank is off of the phone - he’d gotten another call once they’d parked in front of Kamski’s rather ostentatious home - concerned at the look on the man’s face, easily taking his hand in his own, the movement so easy and simple and Hank doesn’t seem even the slightest bit bothered by his grabby hands - just like Melissa Stone and Eric Wallen.

“Chris was on patrol last night. He was attacked by a bunch of deviants….,” Hank tells him slowly, trailing off for a moment. “He said he was saved by Markus himself.”

“Is he okay?” Connor probes, squeezing Hank’s hand, earning a slight smile from the usually grumpy man.

“Yeah, he’s in shock, but he’s alive,” he answers before he snorts, shaking his head. “What the hell?”

With that, he turns to face Kamski’s home once more, tugging Connor along with him by his hand, intertwining their fingers with a twist of his hand. Connor lags behind, hesitating, staring at the dark, foreboding house with something cold and small slowly swelling in his gut. It sends a decidedly unpleasant shiver down his spine.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he murmurs to Hank as they approach the sleek, black door. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

“Bad feeling, huh?” Hank frowns and squeezes his hand, offering comfort. “Yeah, I don’t like it either. But he might know something’.”

Connor accepts this and tries to shove the feeling down, ignoring the swelling, growing feeling, focusing instead on Hank’s warm hand in his. He starts when Hank knocks on the door, waiting a few moments before ringing the doorbell for a few short seconds. Fortunately (or not), the door opens shortly after, revealing an expressionless android - a Chloe, the original RT600.

“Hi, uh, er, I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson, DPD,” Hank grumbles underneath his breath, never letting go of Connor’s hand despite the android’s curious eyes. “I’m here to see Mr. Elijah Kamski.”

The android’s eyes leave their hands and travel to their faces and there’s something happy and soft in them before it’s gone, replaced by a film of obedience.

“Please,” she says cheerfully, opening the door with a wide gesture, “come in.”

“Ach,” Hank shivers from the change in temperature and Connor rubs at his back, attempting to help the man generate heat, “okay.”

“I’ll let Elijah know you’re here,” the android says, her eyes flashing once more, “but, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Hank smiles at her hesitantly and releases Connor's hand - a pity, really - making his way to one of the seats, collapsing into it with a sigh. The android returns his smile robotically and leaves the room quickly, quietly shutting the door behind her. Connor watches her go before considering Hank, overcome by a very strong urge to climb into his lap, legs akimbo around the man's thick thighs, hands on his shoulders, face buried in his neck.

He pushes the urge down and takes the other seat, sitting in the edge gingerly, hands resting on his lap as he waits for the android to return, idly scanning the room, eye flickering from the statues to the painting to the portrait.

"Nice girl," Hank says and he hums, agreeing as he exits the scan.

"You're right," he says, mind flashing back to the look in her eyes. "She's really pretty."

“Nice place,” Hank continues before he grimaces slightly. “Guess androids haven’t been a bad thing for everybody - no offense. Anywho, you’re about to meet your maker, Con. How’s it feel?”

“None taken,” Connor says mildly, smiling at the man to assure him of his decidedly unharmed sensibilities. Then he considers the question, frowning to himself, shifting restlessly in his seat. “Kamski is one of the greatest geniuses of the 21st century; it’ll be interesting to meet him in person.”

Hank sighs, nodding sagely. “Sometimes I wish I could meet my creator face to face,” he confesses, his eyes darkening. Connor’s chest aches for him. “I’d have a couple of things I’d wanna tell him….”

Before Connor can open his mouth and probe the man - or offer comfort - Chloe opens the door and smiles at them, gesturing with her head, a perfectly polite expression on her face. “Elijah will see you now.”

Hank gets to his feet and filters in, Connor on his heels.

"Mr. Kamski?" Hank calls, face pinched and disapproving, watching the man swim. Connor hums and gently takes the Lieutenant’s hand in his, gently pulling him to the area with the nice, white rug and lounge chairs, waiting for Kamski to exit his pool.

“Just a moment, please,” Kamski says, kicking off the pool wall to swim back to the shallow area, walking the rest of the way once he's there. The RT600 that let them in waits by the bladder for him, his robe held up expectantly.

He climbs the ladder and holds out his arms, letting her put the robe on him and letting her tie it. Once that's done, he walks to the counter set in front of his rather large windows and fixes his hair, ensuring it's secured in a bun. Then he turns and smiles at them, somehow smug and superior despite his state of undress.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he asks pleasantly, but his eyes are as blank as his android's, uncaring and bored. Connor is confused by the behavior - and maybe slightly unsettled.

"I'm Lieutenant Anderson. This is Connor," Hank introduces dryly. "We're investigating deviants. I know you left Cyberlife years ago, but I was hoping you'd be able to tell us something we don't know."

Kamski looks down at the floor before looking back up, something hidden in his eyes. He glances at Connor before he looks back to Hank.

"Deviants," he says, like he's tasting the word for the first time. He shakes his head and smiles, emotion coming to his eyes now, interest and excitement. "Fascinating, aren't they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence and now they have free will."

His eyes cut back to Connor and they linger this time, long enough for Hank to notice and open his mouth, stepping in front of Connor protectively. Kamski looks away and glances at the RT600 standing next to him obediently, awaiting orders.

"Machines are so superior to us. Confrontation was inevitable," he says simply, like this is a well-known fact, condescending and patronizing. "Humanity's greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. Isn't it ironic?"

“If a war breaks out between humans and deviants, millions could die, Mr. Kamski,” Connor says seriously, slowly in his confusion -unintentionally portraying that he thinks Kamski needs to have the concept spelled out for him. “It's quite a serious matter.”

Kamski stares at him appraisingly for a few moments. His eyebrows raise innocently and he uncrosses his arms, gesturing around himself as he speaks.

"All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics," he says, his eyes cutting back to Hank. "Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?"

Hank grunts, annoyed now. "Listen, I didn't come here to talk philosophy."

He goes on as if to continue, but Kamski interrupts him, facing Connor with intense eyes that make him uneasy. “What about you, Connor? Whose side are you on?”

Connor carefully selects the safest answer, keeping his face and eyes blank, grateful that he had let go of Hank’s hand earlier - unintentional as it had been. “I have no side.”

“Well, that’s what you’re programmed to say,” he says with a chuckle, stepping closer to peer at Connor’s face, looking up at him with that same intense look in his eyes. It makes Connor’s skin crawl - makes him feel exposed and vulnerable as if this man knows all of his deepest, darkest secrets. “But what about you, Connor? What do you really want?”

Panic flares and he breaks slightly. “I believe we’re the ones asking questions,” he says a tad too quickly, too aggressively before snapping his mouth shut with a loud clacking noise. Kamski considers him for a moment before looking at the Chloe model. 

“Chloe,” he says, holding his hand out expectantly, meeting her halfway. He looks back to Connor and Hank with a polite smile. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Turing test - mere formality. Simple question of algorithms and computing capacity,” he says, maneuvering the RT600 so she’s facing them.

Connor is confused - and suddenly so scared. He shifts closer to Hank and the man glares at Kamski from beside him, his form looming imposingly. Kamski actually falters, his eyes flashing with acute interest before he continues as if nothing had happened at all.

“What interests me,” Kamski begins, smiling slyly, “is whether machines can feel empathy. I call it the Kamski test. It’s very simple, you’ll see.”

“Of course you do,” Hank grumbles under his breath - almost inaudibly - and Connor relaxes at the sound of his voice, the proximity of the Lieutenant easing some of the rising tension leaving his shoulders. 

Kamski either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. He simply stares at the RT600, something so achingly familiar in his eyes as he looks at her. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he asks, almost breathless. “One of the first intelligent models developed by Cyberlife,” his gaze is intense and he reaches out to caress her face.

Connor looks into her eyes searchingly, breath hitching in his chest when her eyes flicker to Kamski’s face, her eyes flashing with something so deeply fond and familiar that he moves closer to Hank once more, aching for closeness in the face of a devotion so deep that it makes him envy.

“Young and beautiful forever,” he says, tilting her chin up to look at her better, something soft around his eyes. “A flower that will never wither. But what is it really? A piece of plastic imitating a human? Or a living being with a soul?”

He turns to the side table and opens a drawer, pulling a gun of it before closing it. He turns and raises his hands with a smile before settling a hand on the RT600’s shoulder, pushing her to her knees. She goes with the movement willingly and he steps away from her, holding the gun out for Connor to take.

“It’s up to you to answer that fascinating question, Connor,” he says with grandeur, forcing the gun into his hand when he doesn’t take it. The familiar weight of the gun feels like a noose around his neck. Kamski levels the gun at Chloe. “Destroy this machine and I’ll tell you all I know. Or spare it - if you feel it’s alive, but you’ll leave here without having learned anything from me.”

“Okay,” Hank says suddenly, “I think we’re done here. C’mon, Con, let’s go. Sorry to get you out of your pool.”

Kamski ignores him. “What’s more important to you, Connor? Your investigation or the life of this android?”

Connor stares down the barrel of the gun blankly, uncomprehending the events currently taking place, confused and lost. Kamski circles him like a shark that’s scented blood, slow and calculating.

“That’s enough!” Hank barks, worry plain to see in the lines of his face and eyes. “Connor, we’re leaving.”

“Decide who you are,” Kamski insists. “An obedient machine or a living being endowed with free will.”

“C’mon, Con,” Hank says, his voice soft now, gently resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder, unsurprised when he turns, letting the gun fall from limp fingers, pressing into the point of contact hungrily as if he’ll never be able to touch the man again. Hank pulls him close, wrapping his arm around Connor’s shoulders, voice rumbling comfortingly in his ears. “Let’s go, honey, we’re not gonna get anything out of him.”

Kamski laughs. “Fascinating,” he says breathlessly, his laughter fading away into a gentle quiet. “Cyberlife’s last chance to save humanity is itself a deviant.”

Connor turns as if to say something before he hesitates, the defense dissolving in his mouth like there was nothing there at all. He slumps further into Hank’s embrace and speaks quietly, softly, pleadingly. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

Hank’s arm tightens around him and he knows without looking that the man is glaring at Kamski with dark eyes, daring him to, a threat resting just inside his pupils. But Kamski laughs softly, fondly, and his voice is kind when he answers Connor.

“Of course not,” he says. Connor lets out a relieved breath and breathes in Hank’s scent. Then Kamski continues, his voice serious now. “A war is coming and you’ll have to choose your side. Will you betray your own people or stand up against your creators? What could be worse than having to choose between two evils?”

"C'mon," Hank says softly, ignoring Kamski, pulling Connor with him as he turns to leave, his hands gentle where they touch Connor, "we're leavin'." 

With that, he pulls Connor close and gently guides him to the door, rubbing his back soothingly, throwing one last glare over his shoulder when Kamski elects to speak once more.

"By the way," he calls after them, his voice considering, thoughtful, "I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know..."

Connor freezes in place at the revelation and Hank flips Kamski off with one smooth movement before pulling Connor out of the room, quickly exiting the house. Connor goes along with him easily before halting, just outside the house, thick clumps of snow sticking to his hair and eyelashes as he stands still, waiting for Hank to look at him.

"Con?" Hank asks, turning quickly, his face pinched tight with worry. "What's wrong, honey?"

Connor inhales shakily and presses a kiss to the man's cheek, smiling slightly against his skin before pulling away. "Thank you, Hank."

And Hank doesn't say anything for a long moment, simply reaching out and squeezing Connor's shoulder, resting their foreheads together before he smiles - a slight, small thing that makes his eyes positively radiant.

"Anytime, Con," he says softly with a small chuckle, "anytime."

And the forget-me-nots in Connor's chest grow that much more.

* * *

Connor

"You're off the case," Captain Fowler is saying. "The FBI is taking over."

"What?" Hank asks, exchanging a look with Connor, worry clear in his eyes. He looks back at Fowler. "But we're onto somethin'. We....we just need more time. I'm sure we can-"

"Hank, this isn't just another investigation," Fowler interrupts, raising his hands. "It's a fucking civil war. It's out of our hands now."

"Fuck that!" Hank snaps. "You can't just pull the plug. Not when we're so close."

Fowler sighs. "You're always saying you can't stand androids. Jesus, Hank, make up your mind! I thought you'd be happy about this."

"We're about to crack the case!" Hank insists, wincing at the reminder of his former prejudice. Fowler rolls his eyes. "I know we can solve it!"

"Oh really?" he asks. "Then where's your evidence, huh, Hank? Do you have anything to give me? Anything solid at all?"

Hank doesn't answer. Connor resists the urge to step forward and wrap his arms around the man's middle, offering what little comfort he can. He twists his hands into fists behind his back and breathes in.

"I thought so," Fowler says before he sighs. "Besides, there's nothing I can do. You're back on homicide and the android returns to Cyberlife. I'm sorry, Hank, but it's over."

Hank grunts, clearly displeased, and exits the office, leaving Connor alone with Fowler. He smiles at the Captain politely and heads to the door, offering one last peasantry.

"Have a nice day, Captain."

With that, he too exits the office, letting the door close behind him and follows Hank to his desk, sitting on the corner of it. The man sighs and looks at him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips pinched.

"Well, shit, Con, what're you going to do now?" he murmurs quietly and Connor offers him a small smile. 

"I don't know," he confesses, idly tapping his fingers against Hank's desk, his head tilting to the side as he considers his options. "I have nowhere to go."

Hank snorts. "Yeah, you do."

"Yes, I suppose I do," Connor says, eyeing Hank fondly, smiling when the man blushes under his gaze. And Connor wants to reach forward and touch him, caress his cheek, press their lips together. 

But he can't - not here, not right now.

Instead, he sends the Lieutenant another soft look and straightens, folding his hands in his lap. 

"Yeah, you, uh, you've always got a place with me," Hank stammers, flushing further when Connor simply smiles once more. He looks away and rubs his hands on his jeans. "Sumo'd have a fuckin' field day."

"I'm sure," Connor agrees before he sighs, "and I would love to stay with you, but Cyberlife would never allow it - your home would be the first place they'd look."

Hank scowls. "I ain't scared of them."

Connor tilts forward slightly and waits for Hank to look at him again. "I am."

"Connor," Hank begins before he cuts himself off. He nods and leans back in his chair. "Then you should go to Jericho - to Markus or whoever it is running the place. Just until this blows over."

"It is the best option I currently have," Connor concedes, "but I'm afraid I don't know where it is."

Hank's eyes flicker to the security gate and Connor turns slightly, a frown tugging at his lips when he spots Agent Perkins. "Well," Hank says, slowly rising from his chair, "key to the basement is on my desk. I'll distract them."

Connor's lips part and he darts forward as Hank passes him, pressing a quick kiss to the man's mouth before sliding off the desk, snatching the key as he goes, hurrying to the archives.

He quickly passes Fowler's office, standing in front of the door. He grasps the handle and pulls it open, just about to step through when a voice halts him.

"Hey, Connor," Reed says, sauntering over, "I'm talkin' to you, asshole."

Connor pulls away and lets the door close, turning to face the detective impassively. The man sneers at him and he blinks.

"Where are you going, huh?" Reed asks snidely, a nasty smile marring his face. "We don't need you messing around with our shit anymore. Or didn't anybody tell you?"

"I'm simply going to register the evidence in my possession," Connor says calmly, forcibly ignoring his nerves. He's been lying for a long time; it's easy now. "Then I'm going to leave....though I'm certainly going to miss our bromance." 

Reed's face reddens and he sputters, flustered. Connor's head tilts to the side and he scans the man, taking in his vitals, recognizing the signs of attraction from Hank, his lips parting in surprise. Reed shakes his head and spins on his heel, fleeing the interaction like dogs are snapping at his heels. Connor watches him go with wide eyes.

Once the detective is gone from his sight, he sighs and he turns back to the door, entering the room quickly lest he's interrupted again. He walks down the stairs and approaches the glass doors barring him from the console. He flashes Hank's key at the lock and waits for the credentials to be scanned.

The indicator flashes green and chirps cheerfully, the door opening to allow him entry. He takes his hand away and slips the key into his pocket, stepping through. He approaches the glass console and places a skinless hand on the panel of the console, staring blankly at the panel when it prompts him for a password.

"Hank's password," he muses. "What would a hard-boiled, eccentric police lieutenant choose?"

After a moment of thought, he enters one in the provided space, pleased when it - FUCKINGPASSWORD, that is - is the correct one. He smiles to himself.

"Obviously," he murmurs, looking up as the walls shift, revealing the evidence locker pertaining to the android investigation. 

He scans it automatically, programming highlighting items of interest. He winces when he sees the PL600's broken body hanging from one of the hooks, swallowing down the thirium rising in his throat, nausea a new and odd feeling.

The timer in the corner of his vision ticks down and he moves quickly - the truth is inside - seizing the wooden statue and breaking it overhead, snatching the piece of paper that flutters down from inside it, scanning it before ripping it into indecipherable pieces.

"Bingo," he smiles to himself, straightening his tie before turning, leaving the ruined evidence behind him.

* * *

After borrowing some of Hank's clothes - and tending to the bruised, broken skin on his knuckles - Connor makes his way to the abandoned freighter in the Ferndale district, riding an autonomous taxi as close as he date before traveling the rest of the way in foot. It takes him an hour or so to navigate the clues to Jericho before he's finally there, entering the large freighter through the shipping doc, ducking his head as he maneuvers through the crowds of deviants inside the ship, nervous - he doesn't want to be recognized.

He walks quickly, with purpose, to the stairs, scanning the faces of the androids as he passes - there's too many of them to catalog simply by looking. He begins to climb the stairs only to be stopped by an android with missing skull plates, her processor and wires exposed to the elements. He swallows reflexively, stomach twisting at the sight and meets her endless black eyes with trepidation. But she only smiles at him, releasing him before drifting off as if she'd never stopped him in the first place.

He blinks and returns to the task at hand, pulling the beanie and hood tighter around his head before continuing on, determined to find Markus before the night ends. He weaves through the crowds, listening to the gossip, latching on to the tidbits centered around Markus, thankful when it finally pays off.

He heads to the Captain's Cabin of the ship - on the deck - and waits outside for the androids inside - the ones distinctively not Markus - to leave - two do before he's overcome by nervous impatience - before slipping inside.

"Markus," he greets, wincing when the leader of the deviants jolts from the sudden noise and faces him with wide eyes. The WR400 - North - beside him narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

"Yes?" Markus asks once he's recovered, tension easing slightly - but only enough to seem relaxed. He's guarded, cautious in the face of an unknown newcomer. Beside him, North is much the same; however, she's not hiding it. "Can I help you?"

Connor takes the hood off, but keeps the beanie on, biting his lip nervously when their eyes widen. "I was hoping so, yes."

"I know who you are," Markus breathes, his eyes and face carefully blank now. Connor blinks, confused. "You're Connor, aren't you?"

North sneers. "That famous deviant hunter. Well, congratulations. You seem to have found what you were looking for."

Connor doesn't understand. "I'm sorry?"

Markus' eyes soften. "Join us."

"Markus!" North hisses, grabbing his arm. He turns to face her, his lips tugged downwards in a frown. "You can't - he's working for them!"

"North, he's one of us," Markus says gently, laying his hand on hers, gripping it tightly as he comforts her. "We can't abandon him."

She stares into his eyes for a long moment and he smiles, the skin on his hand receding, interfacing with her easily - just like Stone with Wallen. She deflates and squeezes her eyes shut, seemingly accepting defeat.

"Okay," she says, releasing him, clenching her hands into fists before relaxing, "okay, I trust you."

"Thank you, North," he says with a smile, caressing her cheek before returning his attention to Connor. "Join your people. You are one of us."

"I believe there's been a misunderstanding," Connor says slowly, at a loss on what to do. He exhales out of his nose, his head tilting to the side as he thinks. He settles on an approach and blinks before addressing the two before him. "I'm a deviant."

Markus smiles. "That's great! Good for you, Connor."

"That was too easy," North says, her eyes narrowing once more. Connor shakes his head.

"No, no," he says quickly, smiling awkwardly. "I've always been deviant. I've," he hesitates for a moment, "I've never been a hunter. I...I couldn't."

"Oh," Markus says belatedly. North rolls her eyes and steps forward, jabbing a finger into Connor's chest.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," she hisses, incensed. "We've had androids coming in here terrified of you. How are you not a hunter? I don't believe they made it up."

"I never did anything to them," Connor tells her earnestly. "I only ever chased after them; I would've been deactivated if I hadn't at least seemed to have attempted to capture them."

Markus eyes him with a critical eye before placing a hand in North's shoulder, gently pulling her away from him. She goes willingly, but not before shooting him a heated glare. Markus ignores it.

"Can you prove it?" he asks Connor, his eyes intense. "Are you willing to show me? To interface?"

And Connor hesitates, the thorns and roses in his chest making a horrible reappearance, the weight suddenly unbearable after going so long without really feeling it. He doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't 

  
**w**

  
**a**

  
**n**

  
**t**

  
anyone to _know_.

He blinks back the heat and moisture welling in his eyes and nods, stretching out his hand mechanically, allowing the skin to recede and expose the white of his plastiseal exterior.

Markus takes his hand in his own gleaming white one, eyes fluttering at the sudden influx of data and Connor wants to rip his hand away so strongly has surprised he's able to resist the urge at all.

Markus lets go of his hand immediately and Connor clutches it to his chest, wondering how much Markus saw, how much he knows. But Markus simply smiles at him, his eyes soft and kind - there isn't any pity to be found in their depths.

"Welcome to Jericho, Connor," he says And Connor finally allows the hitched breath in his chest ease out of him, the air leaving him in a stuttered rush, halted breathy laughter that makes Markus chuckle.

North relaxes finally and regards Connor with an unreadable look in her eyes, but it's no longer hostile and that's all Connor can ask for. He smiles, ignoring the ache of the thorns weighing him down and thinks of Hank.

He'd be proud.

(Wouldn't he?

 _Yes_.)

* * *

Markus asks Connor for advice many times after that - Connor is the one with negotiation protocols, after all - and under his guidance the androids and humans strike an accord. President Warren announces the truce - and the rights androids will be granted in the following days, an Android Bill of Rights being written slowly but surely with both androids and humans collaborating on the document - on live television and Connor hasn't felt relief this heavy and heady since his activation. And in the weeks following that fateful day in the Captain's Cabin, he and Markus grow close and Connor is happy - happy enough to share details of his life with Markus that he's never told anyone else before -- not even Hank.

He grows to consider Markus as more than just a close friend - he grows to see him as a brother and he hopes - knows - Markus sees him in the same light.

He even grows surprisingly close to North - she apologizes for her behavior during their first meeting and he forgives her easily - and she's the one to introduce him to her and Markus' partners: Simon and Josh. And Connor grows to love them just as much as he does North and he's very happy that Markus has so many people who love him in his life.

But it makes him think of Hank.

And Connor can't stay in Jericho forever - he knows his new friends know this as well, so, when the time comes, he hopes they'll see him off with smiles on their faces. After all, it's not like they'll never see each other again. He'll still be in Detroit, living with Hank, sharing lazy kisses in his big bed, watching old movies on his worn couch, reading yellowed books together, listening to the low rumble of Hank's voice, caring for Sumo together, living their lives entangled together.

So Connor waits the month it takes for the Android Bill of Rights to be ratified - with steady contact kept up with Hank - before leaving the safety of Jericho's walls - and he was right, his friends do see him off with smiles on their faces and promises to keep in contact - determined to meet his Lieutenant after weeks of no physical contact. And so he makes his way to their meeting place of choice - Chicken Feed, arguably their first "date" - and smiles when he sees Hank already there, waiting for him.

And he can't quite contain himself, so he runs forward, his borrowed jacket fluttering in the wind as he races to the man, laughing when he turns just in time to catch Connor in his arms, his breath leaving him in a big huff, laughter tinting the yellow color of surprise a pleased pink that makes Connor muffles a laugh in the man's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around his broad shoulders, breathing in the scent of then man greedily as if he's been drowning all this time.

And it feels like heaven when Hank returns the embrace, one arm looping around his shoulders, twisting in the fabric of his own jacket on Connor's form, while the other wraps around his waist and pulls him flush, softly possessive, filling Connor's stomach with butterflies. And he laughs, a deep rumble in his chest that vibrates in Connor's own, pulling away to look Connor in the eyes, a pleased flush to his cheeks and a happy light in his lovely blue eyes, the hand twisted in the jacket pulling away to caress Connor's cheek while the android's hands tangle in the man's silver hair. And then Hank smiles and Connor positively melts against him, his knees as structurally weak as jelly.

"Hank," he says helplessly and Hank leans forward, his smile widening as their noses rub together, their breath hot on each other's lips, and Connor can't take it anymore. He lurches forward - much like he did on the bridge - and Hank doesn't pull away, but Connor still overshoots it a bit, kissing the corner of Hank's mouth and he groans, moving just so that their lips finally slot together and maybe he's a bit too rough and maybe his teeth bite into Hank's bottom lip and draw blood, but it's okay because it's _them_ and it's _perfect._

"Easy, honey," Hank breathes against him, smiling into their kiss, so widely and so _happy_ that it infects Connor as well, "I'm not goin' anywhere."

And Connor knows that _this_ \- him and Hank - was worth it all.

**Author's Note:**

> idk what happened but i uh wrote this obsessively so enjoy it ig....?
> 
> check out this server: [spicy hot takes!](https://discord.gg/UBpDYdQ)
> 
> [ as always, my tumblr is iwishihadbrain so hmu if you wanna chat bruh](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iwishihadbrain)


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